


Ignorance Is Bliss

by newtmasbookverse



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Undeath, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Near Death Experiences, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 31,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28055298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtmasbookverse/pseuds/newtmasbookverse
Summary: A rewrite of the final act of The Death Cure(movieverse), wherin Newt comes out alive (b/c I'm in denial) It's pretty angsty but has a brighter, gayer, ending. I basically took all of my newtmas angst and wrapped it up for you!I hope it can be enjoyed by someone.
Relationships: Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 111





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Keep in mind english is not my first language, so I apologise for any mistakes.  
> Enjoy!

Lawrence’s hands were shaking. They were shaking enough for him to almost lose the grip on the flare he held in his hand. In the other, he clutched a dead flower, withering in his hand.

“Are you sure about this?” A man to his left was tapping his fingers on the trunk of a car, impatiently. “This isn’t the original plan.”

Lawrence gave him a look that told him exactly where he could go.

“All right, all right, I get the point.” Lawrence remained quiet as the man spoke, and kept his eyes on the dark horizon. At the walls.

The pair was standing at the edge of the rebel city, keeping their eyes on the way before them. Lawrence was leaning on the back of a truck filled with explosives that he had gotten his followers to place carefully in the back. Ready at a moment’s notice.

When he remained quiet, the man pushed on. “Lewie?” He asked, but didn’t get an answer. Lawrence only climbed into the truck the pair were standing by, ignoring his fellow completely. He knew what to do, he knew the plan. It was the right choice.

Tonight, they were making their stand against WCKD. They were breaking down the walls. Using the boy Gally and the rebels, Lawrence had a ticket to the city. Gally had worked hard infiltrating the walls, getting a way in. The boy was skilled when it came to technology, and so he had finally proved useful to him. Had gotten Lawrence the ammunition to attack, to infiltrate.

But as his friend- if that was what he was, Lawrence was blanking -had said, the plan was no longer the same. They were to act today, and they were going to act now. The initial idea had been to wait until everyone was asleep to go through with the plan, but when Gally’s friends had come along… things had changed.

He still remembered the meeting clearly, despite the Flare’s tendencies to blur his memories. The leader of the group, the brunet, had bargained.

“What is it that you think I need?” Lawrence had asked. “Time. Every last drop of it.” The boy Gally had called Thomas had replied.

The kid had not been wrong, Lawrence was out of time. Out of Bliss. So was anyone wealthy enough to afford it to begin with. 

But the businessman that he was, Lawrence knew when a man was lying. Thomas and his friends would not return, would not bring him any Bliss worth his time. They did not plan to do so in the least.

If he was to be betrayed, then so would they. An eye for an eye.

He’d granted them their short visit, and it was for one reason only, but not what they thought. Not to give them a preview. No, it was to confirm his suspicions.

The tall friend that Thomas had brought, the blond, had caught his eye. And upon seeing him returning after the hard journey under the walls, Lawrence had been sure. The boy was, as well as himself, infected.

And if Thomas had blinded himself enough not to see it, he cared enough to stay with him. Even if he risked his life.

Lawrence had seen it before, that complete ignorance to the Flare’s symptoms. To the gait, the temper. Just the feel of them was off. And when people ignored the facts, it always meant the same thing.

They wouldn't recognize it until it was too late. People who love will keep thinking there’s time to spare when there isn’t.

With those facts in mind, Lawrence had changed one large detail about his plan. It was to happen tonight. When the boys were still behind the walls, as opposed to later, after a few more weeks of planning.

Whatever business Thomas had in the city Lawrence didn’t know, but he knew that WCKD was where they would be at. He knew when they would arrive. Knew when to cut their escape routes.

So Lawrence would let them enter, but he would make sure they would not return.

Two birds with one stone. That was it. He was going to cheat a cheater, but most importantly- he was going to right those who had done him wrong. Take down WCKD. Take down the city. That was still the priority. But he felt clever luring the liars into his trap. Feeling the constant threat of the Flare, Lawrence marveled at feeling of outsmarting them.

The Flare had already taken so much from him. His body, his movements and partly, his memories. He was still wondering who exactly he was standing with, who would call him “Lewie”.

So much had been taken, that he did not balk at the task before him. This plan was going to take his life, he knew that more than well. But the Flare would have killed him sooner or later, despite the few shipments of Bliss he’d gotten his hands on.

If he was going to die, then WCKD was going down with him.

“They have a name, for people like us.” Lawrence found himself repeating his speech to the rebels to himself. “They call us cranks!” He smiled with his broken lips, and finally turned to the man waiting on the ground.

“Jesper” -that was his name, he remembered now- “Get in the driver’s seat.”

The man looked nervous, and Lawrence suspected it wasn’t for the illness flowing in his veins that he trembled like a leaf when he followed instructions. The engine growled as it started.

“They are the ones who started this war. But tonight, we finish it.” The crowd had cheered when he had said those words, when he had rallied them, not long ago. Yet still Jesper was scared. He wanted to shout at the man, to scream at his cowardice, but didn’t. He knew it was the virus in his veins talking- only the Bliss keeping him from following its orders.

Instead of yelling, Lawrence pounded twice at the roof of the car, alerting Jesper that he was ready to go. The truck rolled up to the cleared pathway, and at last the people, the rebels, gathered among them, ready to cheer.

Every single one of them was armed, werther it was with a gun or a home-made shiv. And everyone was ready to fight.

He let out a final cry, a final sentence.

“To finishing this war!”

His screech was immediately answered by the crowd, and at his signal the car accelerated. They cheered like it was the last thing they were ever to do, and Lawrence didn’t need to look back to know that some had already begun running in their tracks.

But soon the cheers were drowned out by the wind in Lawrence’s dying ears. He kept his eyes open despite them watering, wanting to savor this moment that he’d waited for. He looked, and saw the car was on course, heading straight for the wall. The end destination.

Lawrence lighted the flare in his hand, and was not shaking anymore. Red plumes of smoke erupted around him, making sure to draw WCKD’s full attention on him. Finally.

The wall was closing rapidly, Lawrence started his internal reassuring chant.

Rose took my nose, I suppose.  
Rose took my nose, I suppose.  
Rose took my nose-


	2. Debris

Newt grabbed the gun from Thomas’ belt and brought it to his head.

“NO!” Thomas screamed and in the last second managed to push the gun away. It bounced away from the pair and Newt’s shadowed eyes followed it as it did. The other boy moaned, pushing him into the ground, and Thomas tried to breathe under Newt’s weight.

The ground was cold and hard as Thomas’ hit it, closing his eyes. 

Thomas and Newt had fought alongside each other for as long as Thomas could remember. And as he was being pushed to the ground, he refused to imagine that they were fighting against each other now.

He didn’t want to accept it, the thought that they were some sort of enemies. No. They were fighting the virus in his friend. That was what they were doing, Thomas wanted to claim. 

But when Thomas opened his eyes, Newt was still on top of him, fighting him. Fighting an enemy.

His friend looked at him, and there was nothing but fury behind the blackened eyes. Newt screeched. Thomas would have covered his ears if he could. That sound- the sound that Newt had just made- Thomas hated it.

The screeches were something that they had all learned to hate. In the Scorch, hearing that screech meant someone was going to die. Thomas wished it didn’t apply now.

He tried to keep the thought out of his mind, but the sound triggered that response in him, over and over again, until it was all he could think about.

Had they really fought and fought only for it to end here? Thomas couldn’t bear let that happen. He tried pushing away the image that entered his mind. The scenario could not happen. It could not be true. Yet Newt was still on him, fighting.

Hands grabbed at Thomas’ chest and shoulders and neck. He yelped in pain and on instinct threw the body that had been straddling him off himself. He immediately regretted it.

A thud signaled a landing, and Thomas rose to his feet to aid his friend, who was lying in a slump at the ground. What if he had pushed too hard? That fragile body could be bruised easily by such force.

Thomas swallowed. Newt still hadn’t risen. Every bone in Thomas’ body wanted him to go, check his friend of any injury, but he held back, knowing that Newt wasn't himself. He was dangerous. And though it killed him, Thomas waited for any sign of movement.

A static went through the air, white noise blurted out of speakers hidden somewhere around them, and Thomas was startled. He looked for an indicator of the noise, but there was none. It sounded almost as if someone had tried using a mic but failed.

When he returned his gaze to Newt, relief filled him, followed by dread. The boy had risen. Faceing him directly, Newt was standing, a little wobbly, but he was standing.

“Newt? Newt.” He willed his voice to hold. He had to be the strong one, he knew, because Newt couldn't be. He had to level his head. How? How could he do that when the person who always steadied him was the one he had to keep away?

He knew that there was the risk that Minho wouldn't make it back in time, that Newt might be too far gone for anything less than an actual cure. Thomas didn’t believe such a thing existed.

But if he was wrong, then he would chain Newt down and find it, the cure, even if he had to squeeze it out of himself.

Newt was still standing quietly. He hadn’t moved. Thomas was unsure werther it was true or if he was just tricking himself, but he almost thought he could see the battle going on in his head. His eyes seemed to focus and refocus, and his friend was still standing, without making a move to attack. He’s still in there.

As the silence and stillness stretched over a minute, Thomas started to wonder. Should he use this time to get them further, should he act? Thomas didn’t have a clue to what he could do to increase their chances of survival, but he knew he had to do something. He couldn’t simply stand there, doing nothing.

Just as Thomas made a move toward him, Newt snapped back to life, as if his motion had set him off. Thomas cursed himself, and watched his friend slip away yet again.

His eyes grew dim. And at the look of anger in Newt’s eyes, Thomas was sure. He did not know the boy who stood before him.

Tears were quietly sliding down Thomas’ face. He wasn’t sure when they had come. Newt, unaware of his emotions, was moving his hands, squaring his shoulders. He was preparing himself.

Thomas felt the lump in his throat rise, threatening to empty his stomach. Was there truly no turning back? He wanted his friend, he needed him. But Newt wasn’t there. Finally he was sent a look that ensured Thomas of the upcoming attack. And Newt wasn’t there.

Newt lurched, and Thomas was prepared. He hated it, but he was prepared to fight. They’d learned how together. Thomas took his stance, but before impact he came to a horrifying realisation.

Newt was carrying a knife.

He should have remembered, seeing how he was the one to gift him with it, but the option had slipped Thomas’ mind. The wicked thing gleamed as it was shoved through the air, and Thomas narrowly avoided being cut in half and he pushed to the right. 

With its momentum, Newt’s uncontrollable body shot past Thomas’ and he got a chance to catch his breath. Newt had gone for his heart, missing only by centimeters, and there was a rip in his shirt. No blood was staining it.

As he looked back, he saw the weapon still in his friend’s hands. Newt turned, and frantically limped for another attack. Ready, Thomas managed to get a hold of Newts shoulders and held him at an arm's length.

“Newt. Newt listen.” His voice cracked and Newt aimlessly swung the blade again.

“You know me- I’m your Tommy, you know me, Ne-” His words were cut short.

The two boys stumbled apart, as a loud boom echoed throughout the city, rattling the earth.

Thomas’ head flailed around, trying to find the source of the deafening sound, and he pressed his hands to his ears. They hurt. Beside him, Newt seemed bothered as well, but he didn’t seem to understand because of what.

When Thomas cleared his head, ignoring what felt like the piercing of his eardrums, he found the source of the boom. He stopped short, and for a second even the boy before him went out of thought.

The WCKD compound. It was falling to pieces.

Thomas’ mind boggled as he drew his conclusion. The cranks. They had been with them in the city since shortly after they’d escaped the compound. But Thomas had never realised their intent, their motif.

To blow up WCKD.

As if in slow motion, Thomas saw the tallest building in the city come apart in a million different pieces. He watched it implode, and a small part of him was glad. Was glad that the building would be erased from existence.

But then he came to the realisation he should’ve had from the start. He looked to Newt, who now had also understood the meaning of the loud noise, gazing at the fire in the sky. They had to get out of here.

Newt and Thomas had barely gotten away from the building because of Newts state. Thomas shivered at the thought. They were in the splash-zone. 

When debris, stone and glass would come down, they would be drenched. They would be squashed.

And so were the others, Thomas realised sternly. So would Minho. So would Gally. And so would Brenda and Frypan, depending on where they were in the stages of their plan.

Thomas felt himself glued to the street. They had to get out of there. Would Minho have the sense to run away? Gally would. Thomas thought, somewhat bitterly. Brenda… might. But Minho? Thomas doubted it.

As he thought on, Thomas swallowed, coming to another realisation.

Teresa.

She was still in the building. Thomas gazed upon it, imagining he could see her through one of the tiny far-away windows. She was as good as dead.

But Thomas didn’t have time to speculate about how his friends were faring. Not when he too, was at risk. They would never forgive him for dying.

So Thomas grabbed Newt by the hand, ignoring everything that was at risk. Within seconds they could be flattened to the ground- there was no point to worrying about Newt’s reaction. He got a firm grip on his friend’s hand, and it almost felt as if the grip was returned.

They ran as the first piece of debris hit the ground.


	3. Buried

“Lawrence was behind this.”

Thomas thought as he rushed himself and Newt down the street in the hope of finding shelter from the building that was raining down on them.

Lawrence did this. As revenge. He had every reason to be pissed- Thomas had seen the state of the rebel city. It was bad. His only question was why the jerk would do it when the Gladers were still inside. Thomas breathed heavily as he made it onward.

Lawrence needed his Bliss, right? Thomas was his key. Unless the crank had stopped caring at all.

Some parts of Thomas wanted to think about Lawrence’ motif, but it wasn’t the time to dwell. There were other things claiming Thomas’ thoughts at the moment, and quite frankly: Lawrence and his reasons could go to hell for all he cared. It wasn’t the time.

Right now, they had to find shelter. Behind the boys was a rainfall of smaller rocks, and Thomas was not stupid enough to try to outrun the heavier rains that would soon be upon them. Thousands of rocks hit the ground, filling their ears to the brim with the noise.

He searched with his eyes, trying to keep them from watering, for somewhere to take cover. They needed a place strong enough to hold the larger pieces falling off the building.

But there was nothing of the sort in sight, and panic was making its way through Thomas already. He heard the impact of the increasingly larger rubble hitting the ground around them.

They stumbled on until finally, something appeared in his line of vision that could be of help. It would not hold off any of the debris, but… Thomas put more strength into his steps, and led Newt further to his right.

Parked not fifty metres away was a car, a van, abandoned in the lot.

The boys tried their best to run. Even Newt kept to himself, kept calm. He let out an admittedly alarming gurgle, but seemed to understand enough to run along as best as he could. Their pace was slow, but still quicker than it had been before they had collapsed nearby.

As they made their way forward, Thomas tried to ignore how the sounds grew louder with the size of the pieces crashing down. Still the stressing noise did not drown the screams that echoed.

Thomas could only imagine all the innocent subjects lying dead in the rubble. Innocents falling from the sky. How could Lawrence and his men be so careless? They, if anyone, should know what it was like to be killed like they didn’t deserve a life.

Reaching the door felt like they were saved, when in fact staying there might just postpone the inevitable. He managed to get the slide-door at it’s side to open, still supporting the weight of his friend.

Thomas pushed Newt in the van, and crammed himself in after. It was a small space, but enough for two to sit in the backseat. However, Thomas would not be sitting in the backseat, for he had to get them out of here. Thomas would be driving.

First, he had to make sure Newt could stay calm. Currently, he was sagging in the seat beside him, tired from the sprint and seemed too out of shape to do any harm for the moment. Thomas decided to take his chance and climb over his friend, towards the driver's seat, despite the knife still lodged in Newt’s hand.

Outside the van, it was raining debris, if they were going to make a break for it, it had to be now. Newt let out a low groan, and Thomas hoped it was not out of pain but maybe some sort of agreement as he made his way towards him. 

Stupidly, Thomas had made it so he had to stretch over his friend in order to get to the driver’s seat. But there was no time to move him. Neither was there time to doubt Thomas' nonexistent knowledge in driving. No. Time.

“Newt, stay still, please. Please.” Thomas whispered soothingly as he climbed, hovering above the boy. 

Newt stayed still, but the car didn't.

Some larger piece of stone jolted the van to its side, stealing the ground from beneath their feet.

The motion made Thomas fly into the air, losing his footing. Before he knew it, his head slammed into the car door and the world swam before his eyes.

He felt himself land on this stomach on something comfortably soft, and before he’d opened his eyes he supposed it was the seat cushion. He opened his eyes.

Thomas had landed, with full force, onto Newt.

His friend was lodged beneath him, pushed into the car seat. He felt his cold sweat returning as he came to a conclusion.

Newt hadn’t moved. He hadn’t let out a vicious scream, hadn’t taken the opportunity to attack. It was as if he didn’t even recognise the pain he had to feel.

As terror rose in his stomach, Thomas found that there was an ache in his chest, where something sharp poked at him. As carefully as he could, he rolled off his friend, knocking into the side, trying to get a better look. Newt remained still, and despite the darkness of having dust cloud the windows, he saw it. 

The knife. The knife was jutting out of Newt’s chest. Somehow, it had gotten squished between them when they were thrown in the air. Newt’s fingers still clutched the shaft loosely.

The world slowed, and Thomas knew it wasn't for the blood that ran down his own forehead. He couldn't breathe. Was this what he was doomed to do? By saving a friend, he lost another? Whatever he did, someone got hurt. And now Newt would be...

No, Thomas decided. No. This was a lie. The image before him, just a dream, a nightmare. It wasn’t real.

Newt was not lying beneath him, a blade in his heart. No. He was not dead, not dying. He wasn’t. He was still there, about to wake. Thomas sat, clenching his hands to his own chest, eyes wide. Thomas just had to wait. Everything is going to be fine. It’s ok. It’s ok.

He started repeating the words. “It’s ok. It’s ok.” Soon he didn’t know if it was to soothe himself or Newt.

“It’s ok…”

But looking down at Newt again, Thomas knew it wasn’t ok.

His arms had slackened, laying haphazardly on the seat. His friend didn’t seem to mind that his back was in an awkward position, tall as he was. Didn’t seem to know that the world had tilted with the van. That everything had gone crooked. Wrong.

Soon, Thomas felt the tears.

He was crying, silently, and he covered his face with his hands, even though droplets of blood slipped between his fingers. He didn’t care. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t care.

Was he going to have to walk and talk and live, knowing that this death was his fault? He’d lost people before, and the weight of those deaths was already killing him. But losing Newt… Thomas couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t imagine how he’d have to tell Minho how it happened. 

Newt was his anchor, he kept him sane. A world where Newt wasn't there didn't seem possible, yet here he was. And a world where he was responsible for the death… he couldn't live in that world. Wouldn’t.

His hands dropped to his side and he forced himself to look at Newt, and suddenly, the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard erupted from his seemingly dead friend.

A cough, and a moan of pain.

Blackened blood gushed out over Newt’s lips, but the slight movement gave Thomas a dangerous shard of hope. Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.

The shock of Newt’s movement got Thomas away from his increasingly depressing thoughts. He did care, he thought, breathing shallowly. Care if Newt’s last words were “I’m sorry Tommy.” before he had reached for Thomas’ gun. He cared enough to make sure they would not end on that.

Leaving sadness for fury, Thomas straightened. He would be damned if he wasn't going to do something. He looked around frantically, anywhere but at Newt. Looking, searching for something to bring him back.

Thomas didn't know much about wounds, but enough to know that if a knife had gone so deep, retracting it could be fatal. It was blocking the blood.

So what could he do? He couldn’t tend to the wound, Newt would be dead within a minute of him trying to do so. He had to wait for someone else to do it. His thoughts quickly wandered to Minho with the serum, thinking of what had happened to him as the building collapsed. He had to imagine he was still put there, searching. Otherwise Newt and him… Both would be dead by morning.

Thinking again about Minho made cold sweat break out in the back of Thomas’ neck. What happened to him when WCKD was demolished? Only now did Thomas realise that most of the noise had passed. What about Brenda? He desperately needed a confirmation that they were alive, and his hand went to his belt, where a walkie-talkie was supposed to be lodged. But he knew even before he’d reached for it, that the thing had been left outside.

Newt coughed again, and wriggled where he laid. Thomas snapped back to reality, and looked at his friend. “If Minho finds us, you are going to have to be alive.” He whispered. “I don’t know what to do, Newt. But you are going to be alive when he finds us.”

Without knowing what to look for, Thomas observed their environment. The van was at its side, tilted in a 30 degree angle. The windows at his sides were all blocked by some sort of debris, jammed. The only remaining source of light came from the front window that was uncovered. But there was no view out. He prayed that you could see the car at all beneath the junk. 

Newt was laying at the bottom of the slope, the door wedged shut by the angle. Trying to open the opposite one would risk something falling on top of him.

They were stuck, their hopes of getting out resting solely on top of the remaining Gladers’ shoulders.

Thomas’ head shot to the front seat and his mind spun. He steadied himself, leaning on the wall as he felt a slight nausea. He had hit his head during the fall, he remembered. But Newt’s injury was more urgent than his, anyway.

He breathed for a minute, then looked back to the driver’s seat, leaning in to get better access. Stretching as far as he could, he managed to get the glove box open. He searched for a first aid-kit without much aim, and didn’t find any.

Yet in the far corner there seemed to be some kind of vial lodged. As he got his hand around it, bringing it into the vague light, Thomas realised it was a syringe.

After his previous encounters with syringes the sight made Thomas cringe, but as he read the inscription he had to stifle a gasp of joy.

This was a version of Bliss. He twisted the syringe to read on. For what felt like the first time in his life, Thomas was solely happy to see the letters W C K D plastered onto an object.

It couldn’t help with Newt’s wound, he knew. It wouldn’t save him from bleeding out, but if there was anything Thomas wanted other than that, it was to see Newt’s eyes clear before he died.

He leaned back in over to Newt. This amount of Bliss could hold the Flare off for a little, Thomas hoped.

It was selfish or him to expose his friend to the possibility of more pain. It was selfish, but Thomas couldn’t wait for Minho alone. He couldn’t wait knowing there were so many things left unsaid.

Feeling the oncoming guilt of his actions, Thomas gut twisted, but he kept still. Was it OK to stab his friend with a syringe produced by WCKD, knowing that if it worked Newt would again have to endure the pain?

It had to be, if it was a chance of life. Thomas had to do this for the possibility of Newt’s survival, however small it may be. He had to try.

Newt was still not moving, and for a second, Thomas worried he'd waited too long. But a small grugle erupted and Thomas took it as a sign, bringing the syringe forward.

With shaking hands he readied it, he must have learned how in his years with WCKD, but at the time he didn't care how he knew, he just did.

“I'm trying to save you, if this hurts I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Newt.” Thomas whispered, attempting to keep his hands from shaking. “I had to.”

He plunged the syringe down, and with a sickening thud, it found its mark.


	4. The Sane One

The syringe of Bliss buried itself deep as Thomas shoved it down with all the controlled power he could muster. 

Newt’s chest bolted upwards and he dragged in air with a staccato sound.

Thomas’ world caved in. Yes. Thomas opened his eyes, despite not recalling having closed them, and peeked at Newt. He wanted just a little more time before everything was lost. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with Newt. Even if it meant dying with him.

He was taking another breath, and another. Thomas sagged with relief. Newt's eyes closed, then blinked open.

Newt could not leave him like that again. Ever.

As soon as focus returned to his gaze, Newt's eyes focused on Thomas. What had first been a surprise in his look quickly mutated. Newt glanced at the syringe when realisation dawned in his face.

Thomas found the syringe still enclosed in his hands and made the brilliant decision to remove it from Newt's chest, careful not to disturb the knife. Newt barely reacted when it slid out, leaving a trace of blackened blood. He was still eyeing Thomas cautiously.

Newt's caution turned to rage. Thomas, regretting that he hadn’t taken better precautions, backed up a bit. How could he be sure the boy in front of him was actually himself again? There was no proof it was even possible.

“Newt?” He asked, warily.

The closer Thomas looked, he realised that this rage was not like the one he'd seen there only minutes past. This was different. Though the realisation calmed him beyond comparison, he felt somehow more afraid to be looked at like that by Newt, not being able to blame it on the crank inside him.

Newt grumbled inaudibly for a second before he spoke in a voice that was not quite his.

“What have you done?”

An icy chill went down Thomas’ spine. Newt’s eyes were cold, a quiet raging ice storm of red-soaked brown. “Tommy, why did you do this to me? No,” He coughed, oily blood splattering his hands. Thomas put a hand at Newts shoulder steadying him, forgetting for a moment what Newt had just said.

The physical contact was something they had both grown used to, and Thomas was very fond of. But this time Newts reaction was very different to the usual.

“No!” The screech was barely a word, and Thomas retracted his hand before he met Newt’s eyes once more, dreading what he would find.

“Do. Not. Touch me, ever again Tommy.” There was grief behind the words, Thomas felt it and stifled a sob. Of course Newt didn't want him close. He didn't blame him. Why would Newt want him here if he was the reason for him getting the Flare, for Minho being captured, even the reason for the construction of the Maze?

He rested his head against the upper wall of the car and waited for a verbal attack. Or a physical. Would he fight back? He doubted it.

“Get me out of here, I- I can't be in here with you,” he seethed. Thomas understood, he really did, and it didn't make it easier. Newt pushed himself to a sitting position, wincing in both pain and terror when he saw the knife sticking out of his chest. The clock was ticking. 

“Newt, I… I wish I could. But we are not getting out unless someone finds us.” No matter that they'd probably starve before they did. Minho would never find them here. If he lived. Thomas swallowed.

Beside him, Newt had started to shake, teeth clattering. He seemed to be running thousands of thoughts through his head, plans on trying to get out of the situation Thomas had put him in. Thomas felt like he was going to be sick. But despite Newts more than deserved hate for Thomas, that rage appeared to be outsized by fear. He was staring at the air in front of himself, refusing to look Thomas in the face.

This didn't hide the fact that tears were rolling down his cheeks. Thomas wanted more than anything to wipe them away.

“How long will the… will it last?” Newt asked as he put a hand over the hilt of the knife, winching. Thomas silently prayed for there to be painkillers in the car, but doubted that Newt could digest them with everything that was circulating his system. So he read aloud from the syringe.

“The effects may wear off by a maximum of 20 minutes.” He scanned the text. “At worst, it will last for only 10.” Thomas swallowed. Was there any more? That this amount would last that long was a miracle, this was no doubt a WCKD car, but 10 minutes wouldn't suffice if they were to get out and find Minho. Especially if you accounted for the state that Newt was in.

Newt must have come to the same conclusion, and was now breathing deeply, as if sucking in as much air as possible.

“Newt, I’m so sorry…” he began, but he knew it was useless. How could Newt ever forgive him for first killing him, then bringing him back to a world Thomas knew Newt despised? Newt gave him a look that said as much. Laced by sorrow, it told him that no matter what he said, Thomas couldn't change what Newt thought about it.

With that, Newt took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and ripped the knife clean out of his body.

Thomas screamed in surprise, then in confusion.

“What the hell are you doing?!” He scrambled towards him, ripping off a bloody slice from his shirt to use as a bandage. “The knife keeps your blood in, without it you'll bleed to death!” Thomas hurried in bringing the cloth to his oozing chest, but Newts outstretched arm stopped him before he could.

Newt's breathing was already turning ragged from the blood that gushed out at an alarming rate from his wound. Yet he still managed to turn his head and speak.

“I know.” All the rage in his voice was gone. “I know that.” He closed his eyes slowly. Breathing. Cracked and painful. But still breathing.

It was Thomas' turn to be angry, and he was seething as he pushed past and made for Newt's wound. Newt couldn’t do much as he was pinned down, giving Thomas access to the damage made to his body.

“Well then you are a shuck-faced idiot, Newt! You can’t die. I won't let you.” At his own words, Newt's eyes blinked open but closed as he winced in pain.

“No Tommy… don’t.” The words were weak but purposeful, and Thomas ignored them completely as he harshly covered the hole in his chest with the makeshift bandage. It turned a sick black quicker than Thomas had hoped. He whispered under his breath as he worked.

“I swear to god Newt, you can't pull crap like this.. You’re supposed to be the sane one.” 

At that, Newt arched his body so forcefully that Thomas toppled off from his almost staddellike position. Seconds later, Newt was pinning him into a car seat, his face so close they shared the same air.

“I am the sane one, you bloody moron!” Newt's face was red and so very close to Thomas’, but as if he realised what he’d done, Newt backed up a bit. He retracted his hands from where they had grabbed at Thomas’ shirt.

“I am.” Newt winced. Thomas’ hand instinctively pushed at the bandage. “Tommy, both of us are not coming out of this alive.” Thomas made to protest but was silenced by a look.

“Better I bleed out, then get us both killed.” Newts tears had dried. He was sure of this decision. That explained how he reacted from the… resurrection. But how could he say that? How could he possibly think that that was ok? Thomas didn't know what to say.

His head was whirring, too. That hit had been hard. Did he have a concussion? It didn't matter. Newt mattered.

“You can't die again, Newt.” Sad eyes met him, but he continued. “‘Cause you did. You were gone. Or at least I thought you were. That was the worst minutes of my life. And if you crank out and kill me” -Newt winced- ”it will still be the worst. I can't live in a world where you died.”

Newt was pale. It was the blood loss. He willed Minho to hurry up, even though he knew that chances were they'd already headed to Safe Haven, assuming them dead. He held no grudges, they were dead. Soon to be, anyway.

So Thomas took a shot.

“Newt, I…” he started over. “Newt you told me once that you would follow me anywhere. But you didn’t, not to me. You lead me. You kept me sane, kept me from going through with all of my plans that would certainly get us killed.” Like this one, Thomas tried not to think. “I would’ve died the first day in the glade if it wasn't for you…”

To his surprise, Newt let out a small, broken chuckle. This was not how he thought he'd say this. He should’ve done something during the months of planning, he realised now, far too late.

“I love you.” he got out. Very misplaced and sudden, he knew, but he’d said it.”Newt, if we are going to die, I need you to know.” Newt looked at him again. “I love you.”

Thomas was sure of the statement, and had been for a while. Just too consumed in other things to try to do something about it, he told himself.

For all his worries, Thomas wasn't afraid of Newt's answer. But by the look of anger in Newts eyes, he started to be. Disgust or confusion he would have understood, but rage?

“No. Don’t lie to me.” Thomas was taken aback. Newt couldn't think he wasn't lovable, could he?

“Yes. I do.” At the resistance in Thomas’ words, anger flared beneath Newts eyes.

“No, Thomas, and I’ll tell you why.” He winced at the name.

“I knew. Of course I knew you loved me, I’m sorry but you are very obvious.” So? That didn’t justify- “...but also knew that you shouldn’t. Can’t. Because we’d end up like this.” Broken and mangled, and run out of options. Newt loosened a shattered breath.

“The person you love is gone. You can’t love someone who isn't there anymore.”

With those words Thomas let out a quiet whimper, and he let tears fall. Not quietly and not prettily. He was sobbing, with his entire body, shaking as he cried. Newt's face softened. But he didn't take the words away, didn't apologize for them. This was a man who knew he was a dead man walking and had accepted it.

That realisation only made Thomas cry harder.

He felt warm hands tighten around him as Newt pulled him into an embrace, Thomas’ hand was still pressed against his torso, where the wound had started to clog. Newt leaned in and whispered,

“The me that you loved died with the Flare.” Why was Newt not bothered with what he was saying? ”The me that you brought to life will kill you as soon as I crank out again.”

With rapid breaths, Newt added, “But if you were ever my friend, please don’t let me do that.” Thomas didn't want to listen to the harsh words, so he listened to Newts heartbeat, it was slowing.

Newt tried to pull out of the hug, his face stern. Gone was any indication of regret or fear. Neither was there any sign that Newt had even heard what Thomas had wanted him to know if they would die. That he was loved.

“Tommy you should strap me in. With the seatbelt.” Thomas shook his head, it wasn’t fair. They deserved to have a moment of bliss after everything they went through. He wanted time. If only minutes.

“Just… a little longer” and he pulled him back in.

An increasing dizziness was falling over him. Crying like this made him so tired. Even though he’d run out of tears, his head felt light. Was it bloodloss? If so he could only imagine what Newt was going through…

He was so tired. Maybe Newt could let him sleep like this for a minute before everything began. He closed his eyes, and the blissful silence felt so inviting. But Thomas couldn’t sleep. With a probable head injury and with Newts time quickly running out, Thomas had to be alert.

He was so tired.


	5. Voices

“They're not gonna be here.”

“They have to.”

”If we want to get out, then we have to leave now. We can't risk anyone following our tracks.”

”We? The plan wasn't to get you out, it was to get me out, maybe you could return the favour we’re giving you and try to find them!”

“You didn't plan to save me, I got out.”

“Well we’re bringing you with us, aren't we?”

Thomas could hear two voices outside the van, one male, one female. They sounded familiar, though through his cloudy head, Thomas couldn't make out from where he recognised them.

Newt was still in his arms. Thomas wasn't sure if he was conscious, after minutes of silence, but his breathing had steadied slightly even though the blood loss certainly had him just as foggy-minded as Thomas. So he decided that breathing was good enough for now.

He couldn't do anything anyway.

The voices continued.

“Are you going to help or not?” The man seemed on edge. Looking for someone loved, Thomas supposed. The crashing building must've cost a hundred lives, no doubt there was someone wishing to find their friends, their family.

“Ok. Stop.” The female voice was strong, decisive. “If they were here, they would’ve been… gone now. Either they ran, or-” The girl was interrupted by the other. His voice had gone cold.

“They didn't run,” he said. “No one could run in the state he was in… and Thomas would not have left him. Not ever. If you think otherwise you clearly never knew him at all.”

However icy, there was agony behind the words, like he somehow blamed himself for whatever happened. Newt went stiff. His grip tightened.

“I really wish there was another way, but-”

”There is another way! What about not leaving them alone to die!” The words were screamed with so much desperation that after a beat of silence, when the girl responded, her emotions bled through after all. Through her desperation, her voice was weak.

“They are dead, Minho, it's the only logical explanation. Everywhere else was a battlefield or blown to pieces. We are not going to find them because there is nothing left for us to find.” The other did not respond.

Newt moved in his arms. Had he heard it too? She’d said Minho. Newt's hands dug into his back. Tightly.

“How is this fair, Teresa?” Minho’s voice had gone rough, like it did when speaking became hard. It was definitely him, but Teresa? She was supposed to be dead.

“Tommy…” Newt whispered. Teresa and Minho. She’d said she’d gotten herself out, seemingly going with Minho and the rest to camp, maybe even to Safe Haven… They had just decided to trust her?

“They came here to rescue me, yet I won’t ever get to see them again. They laid their lives to get me out. How can I possibly live with that?” Both voices had become clearly less audible. Were they moving away?

“And it is all your fault! The rescue wouldn't be necessary if not for you!” Thomas cringed at the pain in his words. But Minho had a point. If Teresa never betrayed them, Minho wouldn’t need to be rescued. They would be in Safe Haven right now, without her in tow. But Teresa didn’t back away.

“Neither would they have gotten into WCKD without me.”

“That just seems like another way of saying that without you they wouldn’t have tried at all and they could've lived”. Thomas wanted to explain to him so badly that with or without Teresa, they would’ve taken the city down to find him, but doubted Minho would believe him.

Thomas would straighten the story out when he had the chance, but now he had to focus on getting them found. Newt was shaking. They had to be, and quickly. Why had he not moved as soon as he’d heard their names?

“We have to alert them that we’re here.” Screaming could give them a fright, thinking them cranks. Newt didn’t respond, still shaking mildly. When Thomas leant back to view his face, he realised why. It was screwed up in concentration.

Newt was trembling with restraint. Their time of bliss was over.

“Damn you, Tommy…” Newt gurgled. His voice was cracked and clogged. He pushed himself off Thomas and moved towards the upper side of the tilted van. “Strap me down. strap me down, before-” he let out a gasp, barely audible but painful to see. Pain visually rocketed through his body and he closed his eyes in anguish. When they opened, the eyes were darkened, but still Newt.

“Please, Tommy… the seatbelt.” He mumbled. Thomas could do nothing but do as he was told. Carefully leaning over his friend, he reached for the belt. If there still was a serum to be used, this would be a good time to do so, Thomas thought.

He couldn't hear their voices anymore. Had they left? The frustration made him slow. He had to concentrate. The belt couldn't connect with its clasp from the angle they were in, so Thomas forced himself to find a way to leash his friend nonetheless.

Newt wants me to do this. He repeated like a mantra as he worked the belt into a prison of straps. Double-checking the last knot, right by Newt's ear, Thomas leaned in a little as he whispered.

“They’re going to find us.” He didn’t care if he was lying. “You just have to hold out a little longer, and he’ll be here. Minho. He’s got the serum.”

Newt didn't seem to hear him, flexing his fingers into fists repeatedly. As if to distract himself.

Thomas leaned out a little more to get a better view of Newt's face, a face he was in love with. Screwed up in so much pain and terror, it was simultaneously the best and absolute worst thing Thomas had ever seen.

Something in Newt's face shifted. His face slacked, relaxing. In that moment, Thomas was terrified to know that the next time Newt would look at him, he would not recognise him as his friend, but as prey.

Newt didn’t seem to notice Thomas’ presence at all in the first seconds, but thrashed against the leashes. In the struggle, his arms came loose, but Thomas jumped out of his reach. It was only a matter of time before he would wrench himself out, lost momentarily (at least that’s what Thomas hoped) to the virus. He had to hurry.

Again, Thomas searched the vehicle for something to save their necks. Snapping his head back and forth made him dizzy, but it was all he could do.

His eyes settled on the steering wheel, and Thomas was sure of it. He was an idiot. An idiot who could use the car horn.

Thomas glanced at Newt, still straining against the belt. The knots would not hold forever, so Thomas made his way between the seats, ignoring the terrifying screeches and growls behind him. The noises by themselves were only so horrible. It was what the boy in the backseat was going through to keep Thomas safe that truly shook him.

Reaching in to honk, Thomas could feel Newts hands by his lower back, slicing. His own hand repeatedly pushed against the leathery wheel.

Three fast, three slow, three fast. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered the signal, SOS. He prayed that his friends did too as he redialed it. Should he keep going? Or would that be confusing?

Newt had quited during his honking, so he glanced at the rear-view mirror to get a look. It was empty. Before he could turn, Thomas was dragged back into the back seat, and pinned to the floor. His vision blurred when his head hit the car door.

Newt was above him, his hands at either shoulder, squeezing. He smiled before his teeth bore themselves into Thomas’ neck.

White-hot pain seared down his neck and shoulders. In his shock, Thomas tried to push away, but Newt didn't let go. He was snarling against his skin, the sounds quickly becoming sloshing as blood flowed down Newts cheek. Thomas’ blood mixed black with Newt’s own.

Helplessly, he jerked and jerked to loosen Newts tightening bite. His shoulders and torso barely moved. But his arm was free, and lying beside him, forgotten on the car floor, was that doomed knife. As by muscle memory, Thomas’ hands found the hilt in the dark. It was slick with oily blood.

He didn't know what he was going to do, but Thomas readied his hand and the knife within it. Newt was clawing at his throat and torso with ferocity. It hurt when it drew blood, but Thomas didn’t raise the knife. What, exactly, would he do with it anyway? 

Newt was leaving scratches along Thomas’ neck down to nearly his belly button, deep and angry red. The shirt he’d worn was completely in pieces around them, stained.

Above him, Newt loosened his bite to suck in some air and glanced down at his works. He screamed and stared down at him in horror. There wasn’t rage in his voice. The light had shifted in his eyes again, seeing more, but they were glassy with tears. He scrambled away from Thomas.

“No!” The sound was a scream of regret, not hunger, but not human. Newt was fighting it. But all the same, Thomas was smashed at the bottom of the vehicle. If Newt lost control, it was as good as over. Newt couldn’t win this fight, no matter how strong he was. He could win over Thomas, but not the virus, not without the aid that took so long to get here. 

Even if they were saved, was there anything to be done?

Despite the seemingly endless emotional and physical pain, Thomas knew they must have heard him. Minho and Teresa. They had to have done. He prayed that they hurried. That they understood.

Newt was ripping at his own clothes, his skin, bargaining for time. Trying to block out the image, Thomas curled into a ball in the foot section. He was dizzy and his head was going quiet, but even over Newts heavy, cracked breathing, he heard them.

Rushed steps in the distance, and then a single sentence to lull him to sleep.

“The van... I think they’re here!”


	6. Bloody bandages

Thomas woke to the sound of engines.

His body felt numb, like someone had removed him from his senses. It felt… empty.

It took a couple of minutes in a motionless state for him to regain any memory of the previous night. Newt had passed the gone. Thomas refused to believe his own thoughts. They couldn’t be true. He wanted to search for Newt, find him, but Thomas’ body wouldn’t yield.

Above the engines of what Thomas presumed was a berg, judging by the sound, he could hear whispers. Faint ones, but still clear enough to hear.

“There’s no guarantee this is going to work… Thomas is already weak. They both lost so much blood.” Teresa. She sounded wary.

“What is the alternative? Let him live and Newt... go further? There will be no turning back.” It was Minho who responded. His voice was hoarse, like he'd screamed it away. They had to be close for Thomas, to make out what they said.

“I’ve never tested the theory. I haven’t performed the procedure.” Where was Newt? He had to be here somewhere. Thomas refrained from peeking out so he could listen to the conversation unfolding without being caught. Hoping for clues.

“It sounds like you’ve already decided on what to do. And we have no one else with the capability to try.” Minho accused.

“I just want what is best for them. If I take a sample, he might die and we lose them both.” Thomas wasn't dishevelled at the words. He was surprised that he wasn't dead already, but Newt on the other hand… If he was in need of anything, Thomas would be the first in line.

“Newt lost more blood than Thomas has in his lifetime. He needs it even if your theory is incorrect.“ Newt did lose a lot of blood… Why would they want to use him as a donor if he had too? Even Thomas could see that it was a bad idea. Apparently Teresa agreed.

“I know, but why not one of us give blood? I believe Brenda has the same blood type as them both…” Thomas could practically hear the look Minho must’ve given her, a look that Thomas never wanted to be on the receiving end of. But Teresa held her ground. “It's what’s best for Thomas.” Their voices were getting lower and harder to hear. 

“What’s best for Thomas is Newt being alive when he wakes. If you really care as much as you say you do, then you would know that Thomas would be destroyed if we let him die.”

It was the truth, but Thomas didn’t want to listen anymore. He knew who he sided with in this argument without actually hearing the proposal, he knew who had to win if there was any point in surviving the night. He moved his head to them.

“Minho.” He croaked, and opened his eyes a little. Through his dim vision, two figures scrambled to his side.

“Minho.”

Teresa started doing checks on him, and asked questions about his ability to see them, hear them. Thomas had only one answer before he drifted back to blissful sleep.

“Do as he says.” Next time Thomas woke, his head was clear for what felt like the first time in days, and gone was the feeling of emptiness. He was bedded sloppily in a cot, judging by the size, and comfortably warm beneath the thin fabrics that were placed around him. Under them, in several places, he felt the strain of bandaging, but surprisingly no pain. Thomas rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he opened them. The sight was very different to what he had awoken to last. Gone was the metallic inside of the berg, and gone were the screeching of engines. The ceiling he was looking up at was twined in some sort of green, letting the blaring sun dazzle him. The entire room, it seemed, was created from the same type of material, giving the room a homely glow. It seemed homemade, and smelled like sand. Suddenly, Thomas felt like the room was hot. Too hot. He glanced at the floor and discovered it littered with sand. The scorch flashed before his eyes and he bolted to a sitting position. No. He never wanted to experience that again. Had they missed the boat? Thomas was in such a panic that he barely felt the strong hands that took him by the arms and laid him down again. “Don’t worry, shank. You’re not back there, calm down.” Thomas fixated his eyes. Minho was hovering above him, holding him down. “It’s not the Scorch, Thomas.” He steadied his breathing and believed his friend. The scorch was behind them. Thomas made to thank Minho when he realised. The odd walls, the sand? They were there. There! He could not believe it. Emotions rushed through Thomas’ head so quickly he could barely count them all. Before he had to, he was engulfed in a hug that he'd waited for since the day Minho was taken away. Safe Haven. Minho was alive, and he was here. Safe. The night in the city had not sufficed for reunions, save for the short hug they had shared. In the hurry, there was always something to be done, some part of his mind somewhere else. Thomas hated the fact that it easily could’ve been the last time Thomas would have seen them both, his two closest friends. Saying goodbye when he wasn’t really even there. Minho gave him a little squeeze before he leaned out. Instinctively, Thomas looked to see if there was anyone else in the room that he had missed. But the space beside him was only used by a worktable. A ball of anxiety grew in his gut. At the other side, Minho was leaning back in a chair, running a hand from his neck through his hair. The act was so carefree that Thomas forgot his anxious thoughts for a minute. He wished that Minho could always look so at ease. Maybe now they could try to forget, he thought, and learn how to relax. “Getting a little misty eyed?” Minho chuckled. Thomas nodded and sat up in his bed, he was. Minho looked different, older. Never getting a good look at each other during the mess of a rescue, he’d never noticed. There were dark rings under his eyes, his cheeks were hollow. Had he not gotten enough to eat since they arrived? Time to sleep? Maybe those markings would go away with time, Thomas hoped. Right now, there were more pressing questions. To be honest, Thomas didn’t know where he should even begin. There was so much to ask… “Wha- who… Did everyone get out?” He stuttered out. It wasn't nearly what he really wanted to know, but it was valid. He had to know who were ok, how the night had gone for the others. Thomas didn’t know anything. So Minho told him. Brenda and Frypan had done their part of the plan without getting into too much trouble. The hijacked bus had gotten away from the chaos in time before the blow-up, and Frypan had been ready for their lift, waiting by the crane as assigned. Together with the rescued subjects, they had been well away from getting blown to pieces, safe outside the wall. They both got to the berg in time with Teresa. He recalled hearing her voice through the fogginess of his mind. “Yeah, Teresa. Why is she here?” He’d never properly thought about it when he realised she was there. After all he’d been through that night, his sense of surprise and shock had gotten a bit distorted. “Right. She left the building close after we did, thinking she would be safer with us.” Judging by Minho's tone and short-clipped answer, there was definitely something he wasn't letting on, but Thomas decided not to ask. Minho continued. When the compound was blown to pieces, he had been on his route back, close enough to be in the splash-zone. Gally had pulled Minho back, saving his life. Eventually, Gally also got him to the berg, despite him wanting to run back to Thomas and Newt. His voice got rough when he told Thomas about the events. “I needed to have proof that you were… gone to be able to abandon you.” Minho wasn’t looking at him as he said it, as if seeing him would make him disappear. Thomas' heart ached, the rest of the story was quite clear. He had run into fire for his family. “Without you I wouldn’t be here.” Thomas mumbled in an attempt to convey his gratitude. It wasn’t close to enough. Minho didn't look at him, eyes stuck in the air behind him. “Without me Newt wouldn't have caught the Flare.” Thomas swallowed, fear settling in his stomach. The statement was so vague. What had they decided to do after he blacked out? He couldn't ask. “Newt wasn't immune. It was no one's fault that he fell ill.” Except his, he supposed, having dragged Newt into this mess to begin with. When had he even caught it? Newt had never specified how long he'd lived with the knowledge. “If he was here, I know he'd say the same.” It was the truth and a question. Minho met his stare, and answered. “He is here.” Thomas closed his eyes with the relief. He was here. The question had been stuck in the back of his mind since he realised Newt wasn’t in the same room, finally answered. “Can I see him?” Though just knowing was a blessing, Thomas had to see Newt for himself to actually believe he hadn’t arrived alone. Because why would the world decide to be fair now, after all he had done? Though Minho would never abandon him, and Thomas never abandon Minho, Safe Haven could never live up to its name if Newt wasn’t there. It didn’t matter if it was as idyllic as they’d imagined, Safe Haven could never be home if he was left alone like that. Without his anchor. Minho looked him over again, assessing him. “You shouldn’t overwork your brain, I can practically see the wheels spinning in there.” Minho stood, and made to leave. When he reached the door, he turned. “I’m no doctor, Thomas. I can have a chat with Teresa, see if she thinks it's ok to leave, to visit. Don’t do anything… Thomas-like before you have a definite answer.” Despite himself, Thomas managed a chuckle. Still, it wasn't the reply Thomas wanted, and Minho knew. “He’s getting better, but we should be patient. It's barely been… like a week since we arrived? Anyway, neither of you are looking’ very pretty.” With all his magical power of charisma, Minho managed a smile before he ducked out, but the ease Thomas had witnessed had gone from his body. Thomas was left alone. His heart was pounding loudly in his chest. He’s alive. Minho hadn’t said ‘don't worry’ or anything alike. He’s alive, and getting better. That had to do, right? But it didn't explain how they’d gotten Vince on board with bringing a... crank to Safe Haven. Maybe since the inhabitants were all immune, one couldn't hurt? Vince had known Newt, and liked him, maybe he’d made an exception? “Hey, Minho said I could come in now, he’s gonna check on Newt…” The voice stopped Thomas’ train of thought, as Teresa entered the room. All possible greetings flew out of his head. Yes, Thomas had met her on the night rescue, maybe he should be prepared to talk to her now. But Teresa had once been a big part of his life, being his only friend when watching the glade, and… something else after. Seeing her made him think back in time. Thomas was conflicted. The Betrayer. She really had lived up to that title. The fact that she was trusted enough to come here was a miracle, she didn’t really have a reputation of being someone trustworthy enough to keep around. Or to love. Thomas thought of Newt then, someone he knew he’d loved. Still did. And come to think of it, probably had loved before the Swipe too. The connection Thomas felt towards Newt didn’t feel like something forged by fighting side-by-side, like he felt with Brenda or Minho. It felt like something he had already experienced, even if he couldn’t remember it. Thomas had never felt that way about Teresa. “What are you doing here?” He asked harshly. Her eyes landed on his. She didn't look upset or unnerved by the bluntness. She came prepared. “I was invited because you were in need of my medical expertise.” She answered, always the professional. She walked up to him, checking his blood pressure, his pulse. She inspected bandages that Thomas couldn’t see properly. “I have to check for infection, these conditions are bad for anyone with an open wound.” She said, but he barely recognised the words. When Thomas didn’t respond, she looked up and nodded at the blanket covering him. Oh. She’d need to take off the bandages, he supposed. His mind going eerily still, Thomas pulled the blanket down to the waist, revealing him from his stomach and up, where most of the bandages strained. Someone had stripped him from his WCKD uniform since he’d last been conscious, leaving him completely bare save for his undershorts. Though he was happy to be rid of that specific set of clothes, some part of him felt squeamish at the thought of someone taking them off for him. Now, too, he felt very exposed. Teresa didn’t look faced in the least as she began unwinding a strip of cloth wrapped around his shoulders. “You have been under heavy painkillers since we found you that has kept you barely conscious. I doubt you remember much of the last few days?” He shook his head. Not a thing. Neither had he felt any pain to make him pause since he’d woken. But he supposed his tolerance for pain had gotten unreliably high since everything he’d endured. Teresa worked her way down with a gauze pad and a bottle of saline solution in silence. He didn’t feel much of the disinfectant being dabbed into open scars, nor the water she used to clean them first. Thomas felt numb under her touch, disconnected, even as she wrapped the new cloths over his skin and tied them together. Had he really been out for almost a week? No wonder Minho had looked like he’d had no sleep. If Thomas had been under so long, then how could Newt be faring? Thomas only had a couple of scratches. It was nothing compared to him. “If you are the doctor here, tell me how Newt is alive. He suffered far worse than me.” Teresa was storing the stuff she’d used away on the table beside him, but didn’t look surprised that Minho had told him about Newt. “It’s a long story.” She sighed when throwing away the last bit of used bandage. Her hands were red. “I’ve got all the time in the world.” He said sweetly, not caring much if he was rude. He wanted answers, the facts. From someone that would not sugarcoat them. She hesitated, but nodded. Then walked to sit in the chair that Minho had occupied when Thomas had woken. She busied herself with ripping up new cloth for bandages as she started talking. “Minho refused to leave when you guys didn't come back after the explosion.” Teresa started. He had figured that out for himself, but she continued. “With the little time we had, Brenda and the others in the berg asked me to convince him. He had already stalked off when I agreed. As soon as I caught up, he was way back by the remnants of the compound…” As she worked, her story unfolded.


	7. Runner

Teresa brought her hands to her knees and breathed. Minho had stopped screaming at her, stopped blaming her for Thomas and Newts deaths. She had only just caught up with him.

They were standing a couple of minutes of walking away from the demolished entrance of the WCKD compound. She would’ve been walking this way home had she not decided against it.

Now the clearing was drenched in rubble, some of it large enough to squash a car.

Minho started to pace along the lines of rubble littering the street. It pained her, knowing all that research and knowledge had been lost with the building and so many lives. With Thomas, all their chances of finding a cure were gone. There would be no cure. For the first time, she believed it.

“Minho, they’re all waiting for us.” She said in another attempt to sway him.

She knew well why the group, not very trusting of her, had told her to convince him to come. They were mourning.

Aside from that pain, they had to realise that if just a smidge of hope for their friend’s lives took root, the whole journey to the ‘Safe Haven’ would be jeopardized. She supposed they saw their plan of letting her go as foolproof because she’d ensure to squash Minho’s hopes. What a fun part to play. To them, she was the only one who would leave her friends dead without a second glance.

That part wasn't true. The thought of Thomas, and Newt, being dead and gone saddened her immensely. With them died any hope for the world, with the exception for the immunes. But she had to be strong, had to bring Minho back, if there was to be any hope even for them.

“We should leave, before something prevents it.”

Seeing Minho outside of a lab-environment was strange. Daunting. He had every right to hate her. When he turned around, his eyes were sad. People made bad decisions when they were sad.

Minho had already done so by running off for his friends. As Teresa ran from WCKD, she’d seen him and Gally running as well. Only, Minho had not been running for the berg, but had been running back, towards the compound in flames. Towards Thomas and Newt.

Teresa had been sure of her decision to leave. The future lay with Thomas. And despite having spent the last months collecting knowledge that burned in the wreckage, she had never raced for such a sure doom as Minho had. He’d been fighting Gally viciously, trying to claw his way out. Gally looked almost willing to let him go, to follow, but he wrestled nonetheless. No doubt unable to lose another friend.

Gally got them to the berg, and Teresa, who tried to block Minho’s screams of frustration and grief, followed. The group looked so devastated, tired, that they barely took notice of her. Not until Minho bolted. Suddenly, she was invaluable.

Brenda handled the negotiations. So Teresa had ended up here, assigned as a doctor and promised a place in their sanctuary. Provided she brought Minho back unharmed.

Physically, this task was hard. Mentally, Teresa wondered if it was even possible at all.

She hated the fact that she was actually scared of what he might do. Despite mostly observing Minho from a distance, either through the cameras in the Glade or during his experiments, she’d always liked him. Admired him for his bravery and endurance.

Now he was looking at her like all that strength had seeped out of him with his grief. Because of her. Yet again, his grief mixed with desperation flashed in his face, and he made his last argument. 

“I don't care if you come with us, I don't care if you don't. I don't care. But I do care if I have to live the rest of my life unknowing.” That was certainly something she could relate to, being a scientist, but in this case…

“Sometimes not knowing is a blessing.” she sighed.

Minho didn't seem to believe her, and was advancing a step, about to argue before he was interrupted.

Nine loud honks sounded from somewhere ahead of them. Three short, three long, three short.

Teresa tensed at the noise. From where had it come? It had sounded like a car horn. Minho, on the other hand, didn’t seem a smidge as confused as Teresa felt. He looked mezmerised.

“SOS…” Minho breathed. “It’s a distress signal.” He whipped his head to her and the sound echoed again. Did it mean someone was calling for help?

Minho bolted when the ninth honk cleared, climbing the uneven rock and steel towards where the signal had sounded. Dumbstruck, she followed.

There was no way it was Thomas who’d sent it. She didn’t even know what the signal meant. But perhaps if Minho did, Thomas did too. But how would he be able to send it? Though Thomas was famous for his ability to get out of a sticky situation, it was still such a slim chance that Teresa winced at the spark of hope that gleamed in Minho’s eyes.

Whoever it was, she was still prepared to help them. It was far better than searching helplessly for something they wouldn't find.

Running and climbing, It was hard to judge from where the sound came. It had obviously been from some kind of vehicle, but where?

They didn't have to guess for long.

Screeching screams followed. Not human ones. Teresa took her borrowed walkie-talkie from her belt and pressed her thumb to it. They needed to get out of here.

“There are cranks here.” If there was one, there would be more. Did they have the brain capacity to lure them here with the s.o.s signal? “We can't see, but we hear them. Come pick us up.” She said to the group waiting at the berg. She gave them their location and hung up before anyone could answer.

The group would have to hurry. If Minho and Teresa were to get out of here, they couldn’t even leave the area. If they wanted to be picked up they had to stay in one place, even if cranks came to visit.

Minho seemed to play by other rules. He was rushing to reach the source of the wails, so Teresa stumbled along after him. Despite being deprived of training during the last months, Minho still outpaced her. 

The screaming continued, but something was different. There were two voices now. Minho was speeding to the sound, soon at his breaking point, after having come to the same conclusion as Teresa: the second voice was not a crank’s.

For what felt like longer than it probably was, Teresa scampered after Minho, not finding her voice to tell him to retreat. When he finally slowed, her lungs were on fire. No wonder Minho had made a good runner.

“NO!” The sounds were closer now, the pain in them clearer. This time, the scratchy voice was not howling in rage or lunacy, but something that seemed like… disbelief. Minho's voice joined them as he shouted.

"The van... I think they're here!"

Indeed, there seemed to be a car, a van, stuck beneath the debris right where he was headed. She sprinted to keep up. A larger piece of stone appeared to have sprung the car to its side, and was now jamming every door she could see shut. Was there really someone in there stuck with a crank?

She prayed it wasn’t Thomas. Teresa had witnessed how Newt had looked earlier in the night. According to her, if he had pushed himself much further, the Flare should have won by now. He should be gone.

Minho went up to the window and brushed some gravel and dust away from the screen before he could inspect. Teresa caught her breath. “Maybe you shouldn’t…” She didn’t finish, for Minho’s hand waving her off before he peeked in.

His face instantaneously went white in horror. His eyes flashed around, searching the screen, as if he had trouble taking it all in. Whatever was in there lurched with a screech and Minho jumped away, clutching at his chest.

Teresa went up to see what had frightened Minho, who she’d seen fight grievers with no more than scraps, so thoroughly. Even though she knew what she would find, she hadn’t fanthomed what it would look like.

In the car was indeed a crank, bleeding and screaming bloody murder. Newt. He was tearing at his own skin, drawing lines of blood across his already infested body. Behind him was Thomas, squished into the place you keep your feet. He was knocked unconscious.

She, too, backed away. Beside her, Minho was standing eeirly still. His voice was devoid of emotion as he said:

“We have to get them out.” He said. “Both of them.” Teresa didn’t try to argue.

She took the gun that she’d loaned and weighed in her hand. Calculating. Minho looked at her with a mixture of outrage and pain-filled terror.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” He shouted, and made to grab the gun out of her hand. She brought it out of his reach on instinct.

“It's empty.” She explained, and popped out the magazine, letting it fall to the ground. She knew it was dangerous, letting her defence fall, but it proved her point. She tried her best not to sound so heartless as she added, “A hit to the head will be enough to knock him out.”

Minho let go of his suspicion, understanding that she was doing this for him. Thomas had to be removed from the crank as quickly as possible.

Minho leaned over, mouth going taut, and, to Teresa’s surprise, took the gun. When she looked up in confusion he only shot her a glance that said: “How can I be sure you’ll stop at ‘unconscious’?”

She cringed. Fine. He was within his right to be cautious. She swallowed her annoyance as she started moving the debris that kept the door shut. When it was clear, she tugged on the handle lightly. It didn't budge. She looked to Minho, who nodded. When she pulled it open he would have to be ready. It was an unspoken plan they had come up with.

Though wedged stuck by the stone, the door squeaked open a smidge when Teresa pulled at it, as hard as she could. She tried to ignore the awful sounds that Newt made on the other side of the door, and the growing terror of what might happen if she didn’t get it open.

Thomas was unprotected. They had arrived in the last possible second.

After some more tugging, the door finally came loose and Teresa fell backwards into the ground by its force. Her eyes were closed, but she didn’t need to see to know what was happening before her. A yelp of surprise, then a thud followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground.

She opened her eyes and stood, steadying herself on the door. Newt seemed unharmed. Teresa looked to Thomas, still out on the floor and swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

In the distance, the engines from the berg were looming. Thank God.

Teresa glanced backwards. Seeing him in the light, it was hard not to think of Newt as someone who had made Thomas into the bloody lump on the car floor, but she knew better. It wasn’t really Newt who was responsible.

Minho was still quiet, and stared at Newt just as she did, hopefully not thinking along the same lines as her. Definitely not, she assured herself when she peeked at his face. Tearstained.

Eventually he crouched down and slipped an arm under his friend.

“You take Thomas.” He grunted.

Teresa obeyed and ducked into the car. There was so much blood staining the seats. Most of it wasn’t red, but oily black. She tried to ignore the stickiness of it as she grabbed a hold of Thomas’ body and lifted him up and out the best she could.

By the time he was fully out of the car, her arms were throbbing, and the berg was landing. Brenda and Frypan both jumped out and aided them in hauling the two boys into the safety of the berg.

Quickly the cries of relief turned into shouts for more bandages. And even more. When it arrived in the hands of a shaking frypan, Teresa took it out of his hands, giving hima stern nod before Brenda pulled him back with an embrace. The Gladers made space for her, knowing she was the only way. Two bodies and one her. But there was no time to delay. Teresa took a breath, and got to work.


	8. Learn to Live

Thomas was quiet as Teresa finished her story. She didn't look at him, nor was still touching him.

“If things had gone the way I’d planned, Minho never would have found you guys in that car.” She said. “And we would have taken off without you, leaving you to die.”

She didn't need to add any other details. 

Thomas was touched by the details she had already shared, private ones that he knew she’d leave out in any future retellings. Even though the description of Newt was very different through her perspective, Thomas was thankful that she’d shared it.

It made him more sure about something he’d feared when she dived in from the start.

However hard it was to hear, however well hidden by the carefully painful telling, the story felt off. It felt… empty. Only really telling him about what he could have pieced together himself.

Teresa was a liar, and a clever one. An experienced one. She’d lied to Thomas for weeks without him ever doubting her, why would she be telling the truth now?

“Was there anything you left out?” he asked after moments of silence. “Because I seem to recall asking how Newt is alive, not how you found us”. Teresa sighed, turning back to him, and responded emotionlessly. Putting up a mask.

“He had never lived had we not found you. What is it you don’t understand?” In another life, she could’ve been an actress. 

“What is it that you are not telling me?” Teresa wove her stories well, introducing the lies one at a time and all with a truth-specked reason behind it. They become as close to undetectable as they could. But this did not make sense. She never told him how they survived. As their doctor, Teresa would be the best one to do so.

“You left something out, or else you had never bothered with your narrative in the first place.” She looked away, hiding her face behind a wall of hair. “What are you hiding?” he pushed. The voice that answered was not as assured as the one that had lied.

“Tom...” Breathing, steadying breathing. “Ignorance is bliss.”

So you said.

Thomas didn’t care. If people didn't tell him the truth, then what did he know? Nothing. Ignorance was not going to save Newt, and ignorance was not going to help Thomas out of his hospital-room imprisonment.

“Tell me.” His voice had gone low, and when he pinned her with his eyes, she straightened under his attention. When she spoke, her mouth wasn’t as much as twitching, voice back to its normal strength.

“Fine, but you are not going to like it. And remember that I warned you, because if afterward you wish to never have known, you can’t blame me.”

Postponing. Playing for time. “Just. Tell me.” he repeated. Teresa pursed her lips.

“I suggested we leave Newt behind.”

Thomas knew that it wasn’t a lie. He sat up straight, leaning away from her. How could she possibly think…

“Please hear me out!” She yelled, looking to see if anyone were coming to check on them. She actually did look regretful, but after all, how could he be sure she really was? 

“He seemed so far gone that it would be impossible to get him back! In the lab we never got close to something that could reverse his state!”

She kept on listing excuses, but Thomas didn’t hear them. Leaving Newt behind? There would be no reason to lie about it, but just the idea was impossible, unthinkable… No matter if he was gone! Newt was their friend, all of them! In the absolute worst case, the least they could do was give him a proper place to be laid to rest.

Teresa was still rambling, talking too fast, so Thomas intervened.

“Well he’s here. What changed your mind, Teresa? Why did you help him out?” He’d never said her name quite like that before. Like it tasted bitter. “And don't you dare say it was because you would miss him, because. He deserves better than having you lie about your reasons for saving his life.”

Though she looked somewhat offended by the remark, Teresa nodded and continued, slower this time. Collected. “Brenda.” she said. ”Brenda was what changed my mind.”

”The way she was just walking around like she had never been bitten...” Teresa shook her head. “I didn’t get to test the theory when I got it, I left WCKD as soon as I had a hunch...”

But then she came aboard the berg. She had a free subject to try it on.

Teresa continued. “She had gotten a serum just like the other afflicted had at WCKD, except for one thing. You’d used your blood.”

Memories of a fuzzy berg appeared in Thomas’ mind. “They both lost so much blood.” Teresa had said she hadn’t wanted to risk anything. But there was a reason as to why it was Thomas’ blood that was the answer.

Teresa continued. “Your blood, Tom. It’s the only difference, the only asset we didn't have. Brenda is alive because of you.”

He didn't understand. Thomas’ blood… had fought the Flare? Was she saying it was some sort of cure? There was no actual proof, there could be tons of other reasons to why Brenda had gotten better. But the thought was entertaining.

If, if it was true… then maybe there was a chance for evolution. Survival of the fittest. He remembered the quote from somewhere. If Thomas were to have offspring, then maybe the gene or whatever inside him that made him special would transfer onto them.

That kind of reality seemed so far away. Simply being able to live everyday with the insurance of his life and his friends lives was going to have to take some getting used to. And having kids… Thomas doubted he’d be a very good father.

Besides, Thomas was in love with Newt. Having kids with him... It was strange to think about it, but Thomas didn’t doubt that Newt could handle kids. It was just the matter of making them. Thomas’ mind wandered a bit further at the thought before he realised he’d gotten off topic.

There was no reason to actually believe there was a cure if not...

“Can you prove it?” Thomas asked. Teresa looked surprisingly confused. “Can you prove that my blood is some kind of cure?”

A small knowing smile crept over her face, and it was Thomas' turn to be confused. “You already proved it, Thomas.” He sighed. He was getting tired of all the delays and dramatics and world-changing revelations. 

“How do you think Newt is here with us? A crank in the last Virus-free zone?” Thomas knew then that Vince never would let that happen, no matter who it was concerned.

“Injecting him with a distillation of your blood is what saved his life, and what is reversing the effect of the virus right now.”

So Newt really was getting better. Thomas could barely contain his relief.

That had to be how Newt had stayed sane for so long after being injected with the Bliss from the car, he realised. Thomas’ blood had to have gotten into his system in some way. It seemed likely, remembering how much blood was actually spillt.

Despite himself, Thomas couldn't help but find it ironic. If only he had known… Newt would never have needed to suffer through the Flare to begin with. The gods, who Thomas doubted actually existed, were playing a very unfair game. He could only imagine all the lives he could’ve saved.

Could still save. There was plenty of blood to be produced inside him.

Thomas looked over to Teresa. He might not always know when she was lying, but he knew how she thought, what she wanted. She would never give up a chance of such an important asset.

“Then how come I’m still here?” When clearly I wouldn't have been if you had gotten to choose, he didn’t need to add. She would have flown him back immediately if it meant saving the thousands dying of the Flare.

Teresa looked at him with a joking smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Well that's another thing you owe to Brenda.” Teresa looked out the door. “She did offer me the ‘deal’.”

Thomas didn't miss the quotations around the word ‘deal’.

“Either I could save your lives, using whatever method, and follow you here as your doctor. Or. I could be kicked on my ass, letting you die and eventually doing so myself as well. The choice was pretty easy.”

Thomas smiled. It was sad, really, how low his humor had gotten. That's what happens when you live everyday like it could be your last, he guessed. It wasn't as great a lifestyle as one might have hoped.

Teresa was lingering by the door. “Tom?” She asked. “Will you ever forgive me? For what I did?” Which time? Thomas thought. She’d betrayed his trust more than once, it seemed.

His smile died as he clenched his jaw, thinking. No. He could not forgive her for that, not entirely. He looked up, meeting her eyes.

“You said that you didn’t regret what you did. If it’s true, you don't need me to forgive you.”

She looked up to the ceiling, blinkniking fevershly. She took another step to the door, but backtracked and looked at him again. Her eyes were glassy.

“It just… Is there no way?”

“Yes, there is.” He sighed, trying not to notice the gleam of hope in her eyes. This wasn’t an admittance.

“We can learn to live with it.”

She licked her lips and nodded. Ok. There could be no forgiveness, because there was no regret. Teresa had done what she’d believed was right. It might have led to shit, but by serving as their doctor, she’d at least earned herself the benefit of a new start.

A life for a life, in some way. And Thomas was in no mood to lose another life, even if it would take some adjusting to seeing her around.

Thomas didn't feel much like discussing the subject further, but Teresa was still standing at the door, as if unsure if she was wanted. Thomas was about to tell her to leave when she opened her mouth one more time.

“Your head is fine, Thomas. You narrowly avoided a concussion, but will probably suffer from some recurring headaches, but I wanted to make sure you would stabilise. You don’t need to stay bedridden.” The tears that had lingered in her eyes were gone, and she was sure when she finished, “You should go see him, Thomas. You deserve to be happy. I’m not the one to ensure it.”

Teresa walked out the door and left Thomas in his cot to decide. No, Teresa wasn’t someone he could be happy with. Not anymore, at least.

It was freedom that he had been granted, something that Thomas had never had for as long as he could remember, and probably longer. He could go wherever he wanted in this new world, in the Safe Haven.

So he was going to visit someone that he loved.


	9. Anxious

The last rays of sunshine were escaping through the see-through wall of Thomas’ room, soon leaving it in shadow. He hadn’t left it since he woke.

Thomas knew he should be up, reuniting with Brenda and the others, but couldn’t face meeting them all at once, being that social at the moment. He could hear them, though, the immunes in the camp. They were probably eating dinner.

Thomas didn’t want to do any of it before he’d seen Newt. Made sure he was ok.

For some reason, Thomas felt it best to do so in the cover of the dark. If Newt was not resting in the same building that he was, Thomas would have to search and he’d rather do that alone. Avoiding questions and wishes to retell the story of how he got here.

Minho had come by again sometime near lunch, asking to hear it. Thomas had told him, but the story made him sad and even more nervous about the task ahead. So he wasn’t looking forward to another retelling anytime soon. He had made it through without any tears at least, which Thomas was grateful for. He didn’t need more tears. Neither did Minho, who had powered through without as much as a word of clarification. He’d left quietly.

Seeing his friends’ reaction was when he knew telling it again would not do him any good, so he stayed in his room over the day.

Thomas hadn’t even left his bed yet, still munching over what Teresa had said. You deserve to be happy. He hoped he did. After all, he was responsible for getting the Gladers here, for helping the Right Arm. But he was just as responsible for those who didn't make it.

He had almost not made it. He couldn’t procrastinate further.

With that, Thomas sat in his cot, swinging his legs over the edge. Did he have anything to wear? Thomas looked around and very much to his relief, found a basket of clothing.

A couple of minutes, a pair of pants and a t-shirt later, Thomas emerged. There were few people out that he could see, but noise came from further away, near a crackling fire. How many had made the trip here? In Thomas’ mind it must’ve been many more than the few scattered around the camp. He hoped.

He didn't recognise any of the faces that were mulling around, probably taking care of dinner. Frypan must be around too, then. Thomas wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved that none of his closer friends were in sight. Thomas had barely left them any space in his head that it felt awkward just to see them like that. He should’ve planned this better.

Turning his face away from possible onlookers, Thomas started walking alongside the outer walls of his room. He assumed this was where the sick would be held, close together, so they could be tended to by the only doctor around. There was another opening further away. Could it possibly be what he was looking for?

He reached the opening, and his nerves came back. What was he going to see at the otherside of that strung-together wall? Thomas rubbed his fingers together, trying to release some of the overflowing tension in his body. He stepped in.

Thomas had no idea how to react to what he saw inside. Because there was nothing to be found. The room was just like his own, a bed, a table and a chair. But no Newt.

“Can I help you?” For a second, Thomas’ heart lurched with anticipation at the voice, but quickly calmed when he heard that it lacked a very specific british accent.

Thomas turned to face Gally.

“What the hell are you doing in my room, greenie?” His voice was harsh, but he was smiling. Leaning against the doorframe, he pinned Thomas with his stare.

In the days before the rescue, Thomas had become accustomed to seeing Gally, but something deep inside him still made his voice sound harsher than intended when he replied.

“Mmm. I thought it was someone else’s”. Something that seemed like understanding fell over Gally, and he backed away to make room for Thomas’ exit, nodding. Thomas took his chance, and walked by the man in a hurry, avoiding his eyes.

Gally didn’t kill Chuck, WCKD did. Thomas knew that. He just had to remind himself when Gally came around, just to be sure. He was sure. He was.

Right before Thomas was out of reach, a hand closed around his arm. He tried to yank it free. “Hey! Where are you going, ain't you got to stay in bed?” Gally asked, keeping a firm grip. Thomas kept his eyes out the door, watching the camp as he answered.

“I can leave if I want. Let me go, I’ve got somewhere to be.” Gally didn’t let go, but pulled him back to a conversational length away.

“You aint gonna find Newtie here, green-bean.”

Thomas didn't bother to ask how Gally knew where he was going. It had been made clear to him that maybe he hadn’t been as secretive about his feelings as he thought. Thomas couldn't find the motivation to feel embarrassed. Why should he, anyway?

Thomas glanced down to where Gally held a firm grip around his arm, then up at his face again, with a daring look plastered on his face. Gally merely scoffed. “This is just regular housing. What, do you think that they’d keep him here?” Gallys voice had quited, and he looked over his shoulder, but he continued, a little too cheerfully for Thomas’ taste.

“As he would say; a bloody crank with all the others would be bullocks.” Thomas was pretty sure Newt had never said anything of the like. It was a truly awful imitation of a thick british accent that had come out of Gallys mouth, it didn't sound like Newt at all.

Even so, a large smile still bloomed in Gally’s face at his own humor. Thomas didn't enjoy him speaking of Newt like that, but he had to admit that it was a good-hearted attempt at diffusing the tension between the pair.

Thomas fidgeted where he stood. Then where would Newt be? This wasn’t even some kind of sick-house, but more of a joint bedroom arrangement.

“Do you know… where he might be?” Thomas asked casually.

“‘Course. And save asking me to tell you, ‘cause I’m already on my way there. Just got to pick up some stuff when you were sneaking ‘round my bedroom.” Thomas ignored Gally, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll take you.”

Gally seemed set on the decision, and pushed past him to enter the room, finally letting go of Thomas’ arm.

Not a minute later, Gally walked out, bag in hand. Thomas couldn’t do much but follow. They trekked down the side of the shakey building Thomas had woken in, and veered to the left, ducking in under some branches from nearby trees.

“Where are we-” Thomas was silenced by Gally putting a hand firmly over his mouth. Gally didn't let him go until Thomas had stopped trying to wrench the hand away. “What the fuck, Gally?!”

“Jeez, Calm down! It's not a shucking kiss.” Thomas lifted an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t wanna make your boyfriend jealous.” It was Gally’s turn to be smug and Thomas blushed up to the ears, but didn't comment on it.

Still, Thomas was very confused. Why were they heading away from camp? He asked just as much.

“Because you obviously don't know the first thing about being discreet, do ya, shank?” Discreet? “Ain't no way you’re just gonna walk up to a random shank and ask then where a virus-infested ‘friend’ of yours is being treated.”

Thomas' stomach clenched at Gallys choice of words. Wasn’t the virus being purged from Newt’s body? Describing him as virus-infected felt like going back to square one, and Thomas would not bear to let that happen. But Gally wasn’t done.

“People can’t know about him yet, are you kidding? It’d cause a panic if they knew there was a crank among them.” There it was again, the wording that made Thomas so nervous, but this time he was overridden by other emotions.

“He- he, what?” Gally rolled his eyes at Thomas’ stuttering disbelief. “Are you saying he’s just being locked away like some animal? Who knows about this? Minho? Brenda?” Thomas spluttered. So what if Gally thought him annoying for getting emotional.

“Minho and Brenda know, along with the rest of the group from the rescue.” Gally explained. So, Brenda, Gally, Minho, Jorge, Frypan and Vince. Maybe more, if accounting for the pilot and crew. “We swore to keep our mouths shut lest we get our shucking togues ripped out. According to Vince.”

So that’s what supposably solved the problem of getting Newt here. Personally, Thomas thought it just a tad insensitive to what the boy was going through to keep him shut in and hidden. Still, Thomas had done many things to aid his family so he guessed he would have to do this too, however hard it may be. Pretending like Newt wasn’t here would be a challenge considering he was on Thomas’ mind for most of the day.

Gally continued on. “But that’s not what is happening Thomas, he has to get better before the rest knows anything, is all.” Thomas’ stomach unclenched just a little.

“How long will he be… away?” Thomas asked, careful not to let his words become too clipped. Gally was doing this for Newt too, keeping quiet. It was all Thomas could do not to act like a complete slinthead.

“Don’t know. Until he gets better I suppose. Never got the details really, busy getting the rest to work.” Thomas looked over his shoulder and yes, after having finished their dinner, most people seemed to be heading off for nightly duties. He really had made everyone do their part.

Gally seemed to understand that the conversation was over and started walking again, still treading only in the cover of the trees lining the beach. Thomas found it a little dramatic to be so anonymous, but followed suit.

Moving together in silence, Thomas found himself watching the camp from the shadows as they shuffled past. Most immunes were still lingering by some sort of structure that looked familiar to a platform with an assortment of benches. Up front there was a fire burning merrily. Thomas could barely see from the angle he was in, but ahead of that, he saw waves blinking up at him from the darkness, reflecting the evening light.

Thomas couldn't recall ever seeing such a large mass of water before, but still he felt a yearning towards it. The memory swipe worked in strange ways, sometimes Thomas just had a feeling he knew something without ever having seen it before.

Like he had felt when he first met Newt.

Thomas remembered waking in the box with a twist in his stomach, it was certainly not something his mind would ever let him forget, still showing him nightmares of being back at the beginning. All the same, it was also in that scenario that he’d first laid eyes on Newt. He remembered feeling like he was looking upon someone he knew.

Thomas hadn’t immediately understood what that feeling meant, certainly not knowing it could be and echo from his life before the Maze.

But he had felt something, even though he spent days, weeks, dismissing the fact that everytime Newt had watched him in a certain way, it felt like he was looking at someone he’d known for months, loved but lost. Thomas had taken far too much time to realise that he was, and that maybe, just maybe, that's what Newt was doing too when he wore that look.

The thought made Thomas a little nostalgic in some way, wishing he could remember more about the Newt he had known before the Maze. When Thomas had been sent up into the Glade, god knows how long after Newt, that life had been erased. Literally. But still some part of him had recognized Newt in the haze of getting out of the box and finding that new world beyond.

The Glade, the Maze, the Scorch and the Facility, all such hostile environments.

In some ways, Thomas realised, Safe Haven was quite like the Glade. With the constructions already made, including his rooms and Gally’s, Thomas could easily see how well they all were working to get things done. It would take a well oiled machine to make housing for all the people that were here.

Now when Thomas counted the immunes in the light of the fire, he saw close to twice the amount that’d been in the Glade when he first arrived. Probably more. And they were all working hard to get the place in shape, Thomas knew. The jobs to keep the Glade supplied had been hard but necessary. There was a similar feel to this place.

“You get lazy, you get sad. Start givin’ up,” Newt had once told him. Thomas supposed it made just as much sense here. Everyone had someone that they’d lost, that they missed. It was too easy to dwell on it.

Like Chuck. Thomas wasn’t looking at Gally as he thought about it, staring down in the sand. WCKD. Gally had done nothing to earn Thomas resentment. It was WCKD’s fault.

Thomas was so lost in thought that he barely noticed that Gally had stopped in front of him. They were all the way on the other side of the camp, away from any peeking eyes and to Thomas’ delight, right by the edge of the water.

Ignoring his inner dilemma for the time being, Thomas took a few steps further and his feet were splashing up water onto his ankles, cleansing them from the horrible scratchy sand. It was going to take time, and shoes, to make Thomas feel comfortable with the terrain they were in. Brenda and Jorge, who’d spent more time in the Scorch than he had, must have noticed too.

“Hey greenie! Are you coming or no?” Gally shouted over the waves crashing onto the sand. Thomas looked to him, and Gally nodded his head to the side and wore an expression that inclined that Thomas was an idiot. When he squinted to see what Gally was looking at, Thomas agreed that he probably was.

Even in the darkness he knew it was massive, the ship that was looming a way down the beach, hidden from the camp by a bunch of greenery. It was the ship that had brought them here. 

Thomas had of course already seen it, at times even helped with reconstruction, but seeing it here after it had carried all the children to this sanctuary… It felt different, more important than it had back then. Seeing it last, he was already planning on getting Minho out from the WCKD compound and had counted on missing it. Taking for granted that it would have already left if he came back.

“Well? Are you just gonna stand there like an idiot or are you coming?” Gally waved him over and started walking to the beast.

“Wait. Is this where you keep the sick?” Thomas asked as he sprinted to catch up, still splashing water around them. 

“Of course not. This is where we keep Newt.” Thomas had no idea whether or not that was a good thing. It implied that he wasn’t sick and suffering in a hospital, and yet it felt very solitary. Like he was confined against his will. “We don’t have all day.”

Thomas and Gally made their way to and aboard the ship. For the life of him, Thomas did not understand how he could have gotten on board by himself. The ship had laid anchor offshore, only to be accessed with some kind of boat Gally described as a “Tender boat”.

“I’m supposed to prepare some supplies for their shipment to the shore tomorrow… in the conditions we’re in it’s better to be safe than sorry, y’know?” Gally explained as they climbed on. Thomas didn’t know. He hadn’t really spent much time pondering on their supplies yet, but he nodded along for good measure.

“Take this.” Gally handed him a jacket from the bag he’d carried, as he ran around the Tender boat getting everything prepared. “It gets windy.” Thomas popped on the jacket whilst trying not to feel like a toddler under supervision. It did not help when Gally came up to examine his collar.

“This is too sloppy.” Gally helped himself to pulling the collar up, so it covered most of Thomas’ neck. “You’ll thank me.” He said, then they set off over the water.

\---

It was safe to say that had Thomas not bumped into Gally, he would never have arrived at the ship.

The water had been brutal. Even Gally, who claimed to be experienced (however that was possible) had trouble navigating the waves. Thankfully the wind cleared for their docking. Gally had been right. Thomas had come to appreciate the collar pulled up to his ears.

Despite that small mercy, soon they had been navigating the innards of the ship long enough for Thomas to be sure that Gally did not know his way through the endless corridors. Thomas was sure both by Gally’s everlasting inability to find the way and because every time they made a wrong turn, Thomas swore he could hear him curse colorfully under his breath.

“I never saw enough houses or cottages to fit the whole camp. How come you’ve got a room all to yourself?” Thomas asked to ease the tension that was rebuilding. It didn’t work well.

“God, you and all your questions…” Gally mumbled, but still answered his question. “I was a builder, slinthead. You’ve got to be an idiot not to build yourself a place to sleep first.” Thomas supposed he had a point, however selfish.

Gally had been through a lot that Thomas hadn’t had the time, or decency, to ask about. Maybe he would ask now, but without anyone here to diffuse the tension, Thomas didn't want to risk it. If Newt hadn’t stopped him at their reunion, Thomas would’ve smashed Gallys face until unrecognisable, in that moment he’d really wanted to. If Thomas stepped on the wrong toes, he didn't doubt he’d receive the same treatment now.

All the same, Thomas couldn't keep his mouth wired shut. There was something nagging in the back of his mind that had been there since Gally had first mentioned Newt.

“You keep referring to Newt as a crank. Why? It makes me… nervous.” Thomas swallowed as he continued, anxiety gobbling up his words. “Teresa said he was getting better.” He prayed it was true. Oh god, it had to be.

Gally didn't seem fazed at all, like everything was ok. Like Thomas was overreacting. Neither did he look quite as annoyed as he had a couple of minutes prior. Was that a good thing?

“He is, I didn’t mean anything by it. “ Gally said, carelessly. Then why- “It’s what he asked me to call him.”

Thomas stopped abruptly. What had Gally said?

“He- he what?” Thomas couldn't recall Newt ever telling Gally of the virus before the night of the rescue. It had taken him enough time to confess to Thomas. Enough that there wasn't time to change plans, or persuade Newt to stay behind(if that was possible). “When did he tell you that?”

Even if he had told him, why in gods name would Newt ever ask someone to call him a crank? And Gally of all people? It didn’t make sense. Gally had stopped now too, looking confused at Thomas’ lack of understanding.

“I dunno, maybe two days ago? Why does it make a difference?”

Now Thomas made a complete halt. He’d gotten the impression that Newt wasn’t… He’d taken for granted that Thomas would be the first to wake. 

Now it turned out Newt had been conscious for that long? With Thomas in a needless coma? He’d never entertained the thought. Thomas’ picture of their reunion had been filled with Newt in a horrible condition and yet Thomas was there when he woke, like he should’ve been. Now Newt had woken alone.

That was something Thomas didn’t want to imagine.

What had Newt even been told? Thomas’ sources of Newts status had been dreadfully vague, he wasn’t even told he was awake! Thomas could only imagine what Newt had heard about him.

If he’d wanted to know.

An icy chill went down Thomas’ back. That was a thought that had raced through his mind several times since his waking. Thomas hadn’t gotten a chance to ask what Newt thought about Thomas’ feelings for him, he’d only denied them.

Thomas didn’t expect him to have answered with what Thomas hoped he would, but he at least never thought he’d be left without knowing whether or not his feelings were mutual. Maybe Newt really thought Thomas shouldn’t love him. Maybe he thought it would be awkward if Thomas were to mention it, if he were to come visiting with everything out in the open. For all he knew, Newt might have preferred waking up alone to waking up with him.

Why else would Teresa and even Minho seem so inclined to keep them apart, if there was no hitch?

Still, Newt’s reactions to telling him he loved him was not what worried Thomas. It wasn’t what made him mad. It was the fact that Thomas had been left to drown himself in these thoughts when all along, Newt had been waiting, conscious, at the other side of camp. Thomas was angry.

“Thomas?” Gally asked, bringing him back to reality. He was using a surprisingly gentle tone, but Thomas didn’t find it in himself to care before words were falling out of his mouth. 

“No!” He yelled, a flaming anger flaring in his gut. ”Why?!”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Thomas raged. “Why would you let me think that he might not be alright, that he might never wake up?!”

Furiously, Thomas fully faced Gally, his face turning red with anger. That they had let him suffer like that! When they all knew, without any doubt, what Thomas felt for Newt! How…

“Thomas calm down! I didn't have a clue, I thought you knew, for sure!” He was backing up slightly, leaving Thomas some air to fume in.

“Don’t you make an excuse! I thought that he might still be dying and now I find out...”

“Thomas!”

“... that the only people in the world...”

“Thomas…”

“... I thought I could trust...”

“Thomas, seriously, look-”

“...have been lying about it the whole time!”

Finishing his rant, the rage died down in his veins and the loudness retreated from his voice. Gally was looking at him like he’d seen a ghost, and finally Thomas could feel himself deflate. Screaming at Gally wouldn’t help him at all, only worsen his situation by having the boy hate him, and rightfully so. Thomas felt bad, it wasn't really Gally his quarrel was with.

“Oh… god, Gally I’m sorry for screaming like that.” Despite his past, Gally had been a big part of the rescue, saving Minho more than once in one night. He deserved better. “You were not the one who was supposed to be at the end of that,” he apologized.

Gally was still in a state of shock, and wore an expression he’d never quite seen on his face before. He wasn’t even looking Thomas in the eye. It made him appear as even more stunned than he clearly was, also judging by his silence. He didn’t seem like the Gally Thomas had met in the Glade.

Mostly, Thomas was confused by his lack of eye contact. After the accusations Thomas had just screamed right in his face, shouldn’t Gally be attacking him, or raging at his carelessness?

Thomas only got one answer to account for Gally’s strange reaction.

“Tommy.”

There was only one person who called him that.

All other thoughts disappeared from Thomas’ mind and for a second he just stood there, now completely understanding of Gallys lack of words. When his head finally caught up with him, Thomas’ body moved on its own. Thomas turned around and with a surge, wrapped his arms around Newt.


	10. Me, still?

Newt was here.

Newt was not dead. Newt was here.

Thomas had his hands around Newt tightly, probably tighter than he should, but couldn't bring himself to care. Blood and flesh. Here. For all the times Thomas had felt relief he had never felt it like he did now. He could break into tears by the sheer force of it, but didn't. Enough tears, he’d promised himself.

In his arms, Thomas could feel Newt moving, squirming, and for a terrible second all his fears of abandonment rushed back. Newt's hands rested on Thomas’ shoulders and moved along them, sometimes stopping, but never leaving. Before Thomas could slip away and lock himself up, he felt arms properly around him, returning his hug. He could be here.

Thomas regretted not hugging Newt more in the past, not feeling his body pressed up against his own, not enjoying that moment of closeness. A moment all too short.

“I guess I can go now…” A Gally said from behind Thomas, and Newt let go of him. Thomas didn’t want to let go just yet, but did and closed his eyes, trying to keep the feeling alive in his head.

“Yeah, I think you can.” It was Newt who dismissed Gally, and soon footsteps were echoing away from them, now much more sure of where to go. Thomas opened his eyes.

The boy in front of him did not look like he had the last time Thomas had seen him.

Gone was the blood, the oily blackness splattering his body and face. Gone were the pulsing purple-like veins spider webbing down his arms. Instead he was pale and thin, alike to the way he’d looked in the scorch rather than after a couple of months of a proper amount of food and rest. He looked tired.

That was the expression his face bore. Exhaustion. Thomas would have wanted to scoop him up and make him sleep it off were it not for the shock. He’d gone still, only looking at Newt, searching for any indication of his well being. Despite a fading bruise at his chin, Newt appeared fairly unharmed.

There was something more in his eyes then just exhaustion.

“Hi, Tommy.” Newt whispered, and a small smile broke on his lips. It was relief. Thomas felt his barricades go down, and tears slid down his eyes. So he’d broken his promise? They were not tears of sadness. Thomas sniffled slightly to make them go away.

Immediately, Newt pushed further away and left Thomas feeling very cold in his absence. He looked frightened. Thomas wanted to make the look go away, he didn't want to ever see that expression on his face again. But still, Newt looked at him with fear and concern.

“What? What happened, what did I do?” He asked, and a raspy tone returned to his voice and his accent became more clear. “Tommy tell me what's wrong.” Thomas shook his head, smiling through the droplets in his eyelashes.

“I didn’t… nothing's wrong.” He chuckled slightly. “I wasn’t prepared to see you, is all.” Newt didn't look convinced, frowning. “It was a good surprise.” Thomas finished, wiping at his eyes.

Thomas knew Newt, knew that a frown was not a bad thing. It was Newt. But this particular frown, the one he wore now, Thomas was sure was not one of the usual. Newt nodded slowly and was suddenly moving, again closing in on Thomas. He put his hand up to Thomas’ cheek and, being the taller of the two, looked down Thomas, searching. A hand was making its way along Thomas’ torso, patting. Checking for injury.

Thomas caught the hand before it reached the scratches beneath the fabrics, and Newt remained silent. Defiant. Thomas brought his forehead to Newts and stopped his hands properly, enclosing them in his own. Thomas wanted to pull Newt closer still, but settled with sharing the same air, calming before finally the silence was broken.

When Newt spoke, it was not in the slow melodic tone that Thomas expected.

“Don't you ever do anything like that Tommy.” The whisper was harsh, and full of emotion.

“Don't you ever!” Newt had closed his eyes, but was still using such an accusatory tone, one that Thomas didn't want to be at the receiving end of. All the possible scenarios of being pushed away reapered in Thomas’ mind, being held up by one single action. Newt was still holding on to him tightly.

“Don't ever let me hurt you again.”

This time the words were barely a whisper but Thomas still heard them, and he still understood that it would be no use to lie, however painful it was to hear the guilt that laced Newt’s words.

“You can never allow me to do it again. Never.” Thomas found it touching that Newt cared for him so much, that he seemed content in preventing any harm that could be done to him. But why would he want Thomas protected from himself still? Newt's actions were in the past, with no need for them to resurface again.

That was what he’d been told. Again Thomas’ anxiety took over his brain and painted up a horror picture. Newt had pushed away from Thomas, looking sternly and Thomas had to know. He had to ask.

“Why… Why did you ask Gally to call you a.” Thomas hated the word. “Crank?” He said it in a suspicious tone, and he felt himself frown as Newt straightened his back and answered.

“Because I am.” This time his voice was sure, without a waver, and sounded as though the statement was not up for discussion. “I am a crank.” One of his hands were rubbing his forearm slightly.

Thomas stiffened with quiet anger. There was no way he’d let Newt believe those words. Those totally inaccurate words. His voice was tight, but he managed to reply without raising his voice.

“No. You're not. Why would you say that, why would you believe that?” Despite his cool manner and careful tone, Thomas was getting increasingly afraid on the inside. Was there a problem with the supposed cure? This could be the hitch, the reason his friends had seemed so put off by the idea of meeting him. What if he wasn't cured after all. What if this all was only temporary.

”Newt, you are not a crank.” He said, both for his own sake and Newts. “You, you are here… and you’re not sick anymore.” It sounded almost like a plea.

Newt gave him a sad smile, and wrapped his arms around himself, backing up another step. It must be cold, Thomas thought, Newt was only wearing a thin shirt and loose pants. So Thomas started to unzip his jacket as Newt mumbled something.

“Sick… “ His eyes seemed to have gotten stuck and his jaw was clenched. Thomas slid off his jacket and handed it to him. Newt's eyes refocused and he nodded as he accepted the jacket. Halfway in putting it on, Newt froze on the spot.

His eyes lingered at Thomas neck, and Thomas realised his mistake. The jacket, which Gally had given him, had covered his neck almost up to his ears, and so hidden the stretching scars that ran from below his cheek to beneath his shirt. Some now visible, out in the open.

Newt looked disgusted, but not at the wounds, not at the red dots that were decorating his shirt. With a low voice and brown eyes boring into Thomas’, Newt swallowed.

“I did this, didn't I?” He mumbled, his eyes wide. “And yet you try to convince me that I am not sick, not still a monster?” The rest of that sentence Newt blurted out with much more threat than before. “You still worry, after that?” Newt eyed Thomas’ scratches with burning anger. Thomas returned it in full force. 

“Of course I worry! You were gone. Gone! How could I not?” Newt didn't retort, but didn't look the least impressed. “I care about you, if you didn't catch that the last time, so why are you making it into an argument?” Newt looked a little taken aback after Thomas said that, but still let him go on, finish his rant. But when Thomas spoke next, the anger was gone from his voice. He didn't want to start over like this, with an argument.

In a softer voice he asked, “How could I be sure you would come back to me?”

Newt didn’t hesitate to answer, his voice steady and assured.

“Would you want me to?” Thomas didn't notice any guilt or shame as he said that. Not much, anyway. It didn’t sound much like a question. More like an invitation.

“Don’t you remember anything from that night? I think I answered that already. I will always want you to come back.” Newt was frowning, lips pressed into a tight line. “I would do it all over again, see you like that again, as long as you would be standing here now.” And I would love you just the same. Thomas would. Always.

Newt looked at him, still a frown on his face, but with a lining of shock. Was it really news to him that Thomas cared? Thomas wanted to tell him that, convince him that he hadn’t been lying to him, nor exaggerating, when they were trapped in that van.

Before he did, a thought popped into Thomas’ head. He looked to Newt, who still seemed a little disoriented, albeit flattered. It would only make sense if...

“You don't remember, do you?” Thomas mumbled. “The Flare, you… you can’t remember.”

Newt shook his head, and Thomas let out a sigh. Of course. Thomas glanced at the boy and thought maybe it was better that way. For Newt. For… them. He thought of Newt’s reaction when he’d told him the truth. “I love you.” “No. Don’t lie to me.” It stinged to think about.

From experience, Thomas knew that forgetting something was like it had never happened, even if it is retold. He swallowed, unsure how to continue, or if he should. So Newt spoke for him.

“I didn’t know if I should say anything, thought maybe forgetting is easier…” Thomas refrained from responding. It probably is. “But I do. I do want to know what happened.”

It had to be Newt’s decision. Thomas didn’t want to revisit the memories any time soon, but he would, he had to, if only one last time. But first...

Thomas sighed, managing a strained sentence. “What do you recall?”


	11. Crank eyes pt. 1

Newt hurriedly shut the door behind him, smacking it in Janson’s face. The WCKD-officer on the other side swore viciously and Newt looked to his friends for options. The door was not going to remain closed.

Thomas was stalking to the other side of the room, no doubt busying himself with coming up with an escape plan, so Newt looked to Minho. The asian was ripping at something, trying to free it from being anchored to the wall. With a mighty jerk, a large piece of metal came loose, and together they slid it over the door. It would only buy them minutes at most. 

Newt observed the room they’d barged into. Not knowing enough about lab equipment, he couldn’t figure out what it was used for. He just hoped it was important enough that ripping it down to shreds would be devastating.

Thomas was standing at the far end of the room, by a floor-to-ceiling window that covered the entirety of the wall. “Any ideas?” Minho asked, knowing as well as Newt that WCKD would barge in any second and that Thomas was the only one who could get them out fast enough. 

Thomas, who had been observing the window closely, turned to them somewhat warely. “Just one.” Newt recognised the look in his eyes. Whatever plan Thomas had in mind, he was not going to like it. Yet it was likely their only option.

Thomas explained the plan to the sound of Janson screaming orders at his men. Thomas cautiously inspected him as he spoke. He’d been right. Newt did not like this plan.

Still, Thomas looked to him for support. And additionally, in worry. Newt tried to shrug it off, trying to choke out the feeling of uselessness. But for once, there was a point to it. He couldn’t do this on his own anymore. It's good that Thomas wants to help, you need it...

The three of them walked up to the window, inspecting the height. Newt could see the water at the ground below them, and he could see the concrete. “Any inspiring words?” Thomas mused, snapping Newt out of his head.

Minho answered before he could, trying to drown out the sound of WCKD workers trying to break the door down.

“Be careful. Don’t die.” Newt could barely hold in a scoff, but a sharp pain sliced through him, and he restrained himself. “Great.” He grumbled, clenching his arm. “We’re all bloody inspired.” 

Minho and Thomas looked at him, and appeared almost like they had something they wanted to add. Before they could, the door gave in and Janson barged into the small room. He looked ready to slice them to bits, anger flaring red on his face.

But the boys were through the glass before he knew what had happened. 

Air and wind drowned out every other sound. As Newt fell, he felt his stomach up in his throat, almost choking him. He couldn't take his eyes from the fast appearing ground, but he knew they were not being followed out in the sky. Neither did any gunshots, he realised gratefully, right before two bodies hit the water surface with a splash. 

Seconds later the world went cold. 

So quickly after the landing that Newt was positive he’d lost consciousness for a minute, a pair of hands grabbed at his shoulders. He was pulled out, clothes heavy from the water.

Aside from the returning stinging pain spreading from his arm to his torso, Newt didn't feel any pain when Thomas asked him if he was ok. He nodded his head dismissively even though his Tommy’s face felt unusually blurry.

He felt a hand around his wrist, then he was running, or rather jogging awkwardly, away from the compound. The water in his clothes made him feel so heavy, every step was harder to manage. But he didn’t need to suffer long before they were forced to stop.

Through his continually blurring vision Newt realised, with no small amount of fear, why they had stopped. Guards clad in WCKD gear had appeared as if from nowhere. They were being held at gunpoint.

Newt had never been so pleased at seeing Gally.

Whipping off the horrid WCKD mask, his friend stopped them all short. Using this moment, he took down the other guards before they could call for backup.

Gally lowered his weapon, and glanced at the compound. “You guys are crazy.” Newt agreed fully, but didn’t have time to say so before they were on the move again. This did not prevent him from seeing the look on Minho's face at the resurrected glader.

As they moved on, hurrying to get a head start from Janson, Newt tried his best to keep upright, keep steady. Newt tried to continue forward. He really did try, but whenever he advanced once, he felt like he was taking two steps backward. 

Forward and backward, forward and backward, forward and backward. It became a pillar to keep him centered whilst the world seemed to spin. It worked well to count, it kept him from himself, and from the others.

This method was stopped abruptly as they stopped at a crossroads. In the back of his mind, Newt recognised the aftermath of an explosion. The streets before them were littered with debris, lit with fire.

The foursome halted their escape. Minho helped him sit properly, looking him in the eye and holding his face gently as if to keep him from seeing something behind him.

Thomas was talking to Gally, and from their conversation Newt realised what Minho tried to distract him from. “They’re all over the place! Must be at least a hundred between here and the berg.” Newt knew of what they spoke. As the two proceeded to disagree about something, Minho made sure Newt was content before he joined them. 

He could hear the sounds of the city behind him. He heard what Gally had described. He heard the cranks.

Loudly, they hollered as if they were going to skin every man in the city, they hollered as if they’d already won the battle that was starting. But the most fear-inducing sounds came from the few that had already passed the gone.

Their dead, pointless moaning was what frightened Newt the most. He realised his hand had reached up to his chest, where the capsule was embedded. Soon.

Newt glanced over to the other boys. Gally had moved on to talking rapidly into a walkie-talkie, but Minho and Thomas were not engaged. Because of the loudness of the cranks, their voices had risen too, even if they hadn’t noticed.

It was enough for Newt to hear Minho ask, “how long has he been like this?” While glancing warily at him. Thomas didn’t answer, just shook his head slightly. He didn’t know.

Not wanting to see Thomas struggle with his words like that, Newt turned his head away. Gally’s estimate was wrong. Hundred and one cranks lay between them and safety.

Newt closed his eyes, trying his best to shut the world away. But even as he tried to, he couldn’t keep his thought away from the rest of the crew, of Brenda or of Frypan.

That Gally had joined the trio eased Newt's mind a little. It was one less thing to worry about. But what if the rest had gotten into trouble? Assuming that Brenda had gotten out well, Frypan with her, Newt could allow himself to fully focus on getting this group out. But what if?

Newt's thoughts were interrupted as he was heaved up, apparently supposed to run again. He coughed painfully, but got to his feet. With Gally in the lead, both Minho and Thomas were free to help him along. Both of his arms were placed around either’s neck, and then they were moving again.

Though the pain made it difficult to both breathe and walk at the same time, it didn't distract Newt from being his reasonable self. He didn’t make irrational plans for escaping their messes, he was the one that thought things through.

This made him realise one primary thing. We are not going fast enough. In control over the city, Janson and Ava could stop them short at any minute. Faster. He pleaded, in his mind. But Newt knew he couldn’t go any faster, he knew he’d only get slower and slower.

Gally called back to him from where he was holding the lead. “We’re almost there Newt!”

He was lying. “Just leave me.”

His cracked voice didn’t get a reply short of Minho and Thomas stiffening slightly, sharing a look that Newt would describe as worrisome. Just about to argue for his cause, Newt was silenced by the commotion of the battlefield that raged. They were almost out of the woods when another explosion sounded from ahead, closer this time.

The ripple effect sent the earth shaking, bringing Newt’s feet up from under him. When he fell, the universe was kind enough to let them be right at the edge of a building. The party stumbled into a stop, so Minho and Thomas let Newt rest against another wall.

Again, Thomas and Gally had started to whisper feverly, this time repeatedly glancing at him. Meanwhile, Minho was crunching next to him, a hand on his shoulder keeping him upright.

As if he couldn't sit by himself? Newt thought bitterly. He didn’t enjoy being treated like he couldn’t do things on his own. You can’t. A voice in his head reminded him. You’re weak.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Minho asked, trying to focus Newt on him, instead of his thoughts, or of the rest of the world. Minho only talked to Newt in that way once before with that expression, and managing a weak smile, Newt attempted to make it go away. He didn’t want to see it again.

“Bloody terrible” He coughed a little. “But it’s good to see you, though.” Newt knew the question was more sincere than his answer, but he didn’t have the heart to tell Minho how truly horrible he felt. There was the tiniest hint of a smile in Minho's face, even though he probably knew it too. In the moment, seeing that small smile-like expression was enough. Newt wanted to see Minho smile again. He wanted his friend back.

Before Newt could express to Minho how happy he was to see him after so long, Gally tapped Minho on the shoulder, and murmured to him. From what Newt caught of their quick exchange of words, he understood one thing.

Minho was leaving. He didn’t care why, but Minho was leaving him again and this time… possibly permanently.

Horrified at the thought, Newt clutched Minho's jacket before he stood. There were so many things he wanted to say to his friend that in the heat of the moment he ended up saying a single sentence.

“Thank you.” The voice that erupted his throat was hoarse and sounded harsher than Newt wanted it to come off. Still, Minho nodded before he stood, but Newt didn't miss the glassy layer he’d gotten in his eye before he turned and ran.

Newt didn’t want Minho to go, didn’t want this to be their last interaction. For the first time, Newt found himself wishing to be back in the glade, where at least he’d gotten to see Minho everyday, see him as relaxed as he could be.

Still thinking on it, Newt’s head rolled over, eyes getting transfixed by the twinkling lights of the collapsing city. The Glade was so long ago… how did it all turn out this way? The flashing orange and reds were, despite their cause, somewhat comforting.

He didn’t know how long he’d gazed at the lights when somewhere over the dulled sounds, Newt heard his name called. He didn’t want to go just yet, but someone shook his shoulders lightly.

“Newt.” It was Thomas’ voice he’d heard, his hands at his shoulders. Usually Newt would not have minded it, but a nagging feeling crept at his gut. Could he at least get some rest before they started up again? 

He was being shaken more vigorously now. “Newt!” Finally, Newt looked back at Thomas, dragging his eyes from the lights. He couldn’t run anymore. He was going to snap this at Thomas, but the look in Thomas’ eyes made him pause.

Desperation. Thomas looked at the end of his rope, sweat and specks of blood on his skin. He was breathing heavily, unevenly. Newt knew he must be looking twice as bad for Thomas to look so desperate. So Newt decided it was time.

Grabbing at his chest, he got a hold of the capsule hanging around his neck, and started tugging at it. Oblivious, Thomas was trying to help him stand.

“Newt, we have to go.” He pleaded. Harshly, Newt pushed him off.

“No!”

Thomas looked a little stunned at Newts scratchy voice, and bought Newt enough time to yank the thread loose. He felt the stinging pain of the thread slashing into his neck as it broke.

Finally aware of what Newt was doing, Thomas waited as patiently as he could, but he couldn’t help himself from tapping his fingers obsessively. It was very annoying. Wrestling with the sudden anger flaring in him, Newt thrust the capsule at Thomas.

“Take it!” He screamed. He hadn’t meant to scream. Thomas put his hand over the capsule, basically keeping Newt’s hand encased in his hold as well. It comforted Newt enough to look him in the eye, to convey what he actually wanted.

He didn’t know what to say. Now when he realised this might very well be his last chance, words had seemed to have more meaning. There was much to say, just like there had with Minho, but this was different. These were other things to get across, things Newt had not been able to convey even before he got infected.

But Thomas would find out either way, if he didn’t already know. Newt had ensured that. He thought of the necklace. After a lot of speculation, maybe it had been a good choice after all. Now Newt didn’t have to worry about Tommy’s reaction.

So instead he decided on pleading for something Thomas could actually act on. When assured the necklace was secure with him, he opened his mouth. 

“Please, Tommy, Please.” He pleaded for Thomas to get out, for him to live on, but there was not a chance that he could explain further. He could barely suck in air to speak. Newt just prayed Thomas could understand what he meant, because he wouldn't be able to tell him.

The only sign of understanding Newt received was Thomas nodding carefully.

After taking a second of pause, Thomas rasped. “Come on Newt, it’s me and you.” He was stuffing the necklace in the pocket of his pants, securing it for now. “I need you to give me everything you’ve got okay?” 

Albeit exhausted, Thomas’ words made Newt feel a tiny bit better. So he answered. “Okay.”

Werther it was more for himself or Thomas he didn’t know.


	12. Crank eyes pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: attempted suicide in POV
> 
> Summary if you dont want to read that: (No major plot points are missed by skipping this chapter.)  
> Newt passes the gone and falls in and out of awareness, finally trying to end his life in order to save Thomas.

Thomas helped Newt to stand, already having to support most of Newts weight. They were wobbly on their feet, just the two of them staggering forward. Thomas kept his arm around him, making them halt on. Olivious, it seemed, to the fact that in the pace they were going, they would not reach the berg in time.

Quickly, Newt forgot why he’d stayed calm for so long.

He tried to sway Thomas once more. Go without me. But the only thing that came from his mouth was a faint gurgle.

He was starting to lose his temper again. What did he have to do for Thomas to understand? He needed to leave, now. There was the small comfort of knowing Minho was out, that he’d escaped once and for all, but Thomas needed to get out too. Hopelessly, Newt tried to speak, but nothing but spittle erupted from his mouth.

Even if he wanted to, there wasn’t much Newt could say to stop Thomas’ stubborn way of dragging Newt with him. Newt quickly lost any motivation to stop him as he entered a sort of daze.

The world returned to blurry and his perception of time felt oddly off balance. Had they been moving for an hour? Or had it only been seconds that Newt’d burdened Thomas with his necklace? He didn’t know. Neither did he know if he was actually walking anymore, much less if he was going in the right direction.

Some of the commotion seemed to have cooled down when finally Newt regained enough focus to inspect their surroundings. As Thomas came to a halt, breathing heavily under his weight, Newt glanced backwards, towards the compound.

They’d barely gotten away from it.

Thomas was still catching his breath, so Newt took his chance and pushed away from him. Thomas had to get out. With no actual plan, Newt just focused on getting his sorry ass away from Thomas.

Without any balance or strength, he almost toppled over just by standing alone. “No, wait-.” Thomas called after him, grabbing at his arms. Before he could get a proper hold, the smoke from the fires of the battlefield led him to a coughing fit.

Mainly due to Thomas’ excessive coughing, Newt managed to stumble away for a few steps. But as if on cue, when he took the next step his mind went blank and he fell to the ground.

\---

Newt paused his story.

Looking Thomas over from where he stood, Newt seemed hesitant to continue. He wiped his face with the palm of his hand. Thomas noticed a faint scar there, one he hadn’t seen before.

Lowering his hands, Newt spoke quietly. “Do you want to hear the rest?” Every word in the question signaled how bare Newt had made himself. Sharing such details, Thomas knew that this story may not have been repeated several times aloud, but defiatly had in quiet. In dreams and memory. Repeated over and over in Newts head.

Newt continued. “I don’t want you to… It gets worse from here.” He sighed. “I’m… I don’t know.”

Despite not having the slightest idea of how it felt to go through it all, Thomas sympathised. “You weren’t yourself. It wasn’t really you.” Some stories need to be told, lest they eat you alive.

Newt looked sceptical, but nodded. “Ok. Just promise to tell me if I should stop, yeah?”

“I promise.” 

Newt looked at him intently, maintaining eye contact. He absently scratched at his wrist.

“Ok.”

\---

The next thing Newt knew was that despite falling face-forward onto the concrete, his face was not smashed into the ground. Instead, his head was tilted, chin up towards the sky, opening his windpipes for air. There was still a lingering ache from the fall on his cheek.

Blinking around, Newt got his answer as to why.

Someone was by his side, crouching by him, keeping his head tilted just right. Barely being able to see, Newt couldn’t make out who it was, but he had a worried face, and was talking rapidly into a walkie-talkie.

Newt squirmed a little as a twinge of pain rocketed his body, and the boy let out a surprised albeit relieved sound. He pressed his hand into Newts shoulder as if it was something he’d done in the past, then whispered “Stay put.” Before he stood and walked away a little bit.

The brunet boy was talking to someone on the other line. “He is coming to… We don't have much time….” Newt couldn't concentrate enough to listen on, instead laid on the ground, trying to regain his strength.

His vision blurred in and out, at times he could barely see the sky above him. It was a relief not to be hurried on and on by someone else’s wishes, but this moment wasn’t peaceful. He could feel himself getting bothered, annoyed at anything. Even the tiniest rocks that dug into his back made him feel like punching a wall.

Every small sound put him on edge. The boy’s rapid talking was not a help to Newt’s rising irritation. Maybe he should put it to an end.

Being behind him, Newt couldn’t see the other boy as he rose. He stood on his own, barely wavering. The sounds from behind him lessened. “Hold on, I need to go. Hurry.” The somewhat familiar voice ended the call quickly. Probably wondering how Newt managed to stand, the boy’s voice sounded wary and surprised.

“Newt?”

He didn’t move. He knew, somehow, that neither time or strength was in his favour at the moment, so calculated his movements accordingly. Distantly, he knew that thinking was something he could do, something he did well, but his mind was foggy. It made it hard to keep his thoughts straight.

Slowly, he turned. The brown haired boy’s face was screwed up in sadness, and, to his delight, fear. But it did not look like he was fearing for his own life, it didn’t feel like he was going to shit his pants in horror.

“Newt?” This time the name was said in more worry than anything else. Why worry, he thought. Fear. You should be scared. Newt carefully padded at his waist, until he found what he was looking for. His hand enclosed around the hilt of the knife. Wait. An inner voice charmed. Scare him. There is time for that later. Scare him first. In the light of the fires of the battlefield, Newt's lips quirked up slightly, almost unnoticeably.

A loud growl erupted Newt as he launched himself upon the stranger. His hands, leaving the hilt of the knife, pushed at the boy, scratched at his arms. But the brunet moved quickly, faster than he thought possible.

Heaving himself at the boy again, Newt missed and fell to the ground.

As his hands tore at the concrete, something in his mind ceased. A sharp pain came from his slashed hand, where blood was splattered all over the pavement. It was too dark to be red. Beneath the unexplainable anger that welled in his body, the new pain was distracting. With it, the world cleared slowly, as if waking from a dream.

Why was he even on the ground? 

Newt glanced up. Tommy was standing a few metres away, in a readied position. It was a pose they’d learned alongside each other, taught by Brenda. It was self-defence.

It didn’t take long for Newt to understand what was going on. Tommy’s stance. The blood. The anger. Only one thing could solve the situation they were in. Newt knew it, even in his horrible state. Surely Thomas would understand.

“Tommy, kill me!”

Newt watched Thomas react to the broken words. Surely Thomas would obey this last time, he thought. But he didn’t. Shaking his head in disbelief, Newt’s friend didn’t do as much as lift a finger to help.

It was enough for Newt to rise on his own, shrieking with effort and agony. Thomas didn’t want to do this one thing for him? After all he’d done in his favor?! Furiously, Newt aimed his body at Thomas, who with his supernatural speed narrowly avoided him.

After all, this whole thing was Thomas’ fault. The rescue, his infection. Even his gods-damned leg if you thought about it. All he could do was to at least, at least do this for him.

Using what felt like the last vessels of power, Newt threw himself at Thomas a final time, and finally, finally, succeeded in bringing him down. The boys’ head smacked against the ground, and Newt was fast to put his body weight on top of Thomas before he regained the power to rise.

Automatically, Newts hands went to his shoulders, pushing him down with all his might. Thomas struggled beneath him, entageling his hands with Newts, trying to loosen his iron grip. Trying to keep him away. “It's me!” Thomas pleaded.

“It’s me, Newt!” His face was so scrunched up that Newt barely saw the silver lining his eyes.

Thomas’ face cleared his mind, the rest of the world falling away as if he zoomed his vision.

Tommy was crying. Newt had seen Thomas cry, seen him weep over dying friends. He’d cried with him, he’d cried for him. But Newt had never seen his Tommy cry like he was now.

Newt barely recognised that tears were leaking from his own eyes as well.

“I’m sorry Tommy.” He breathed, “I’m sorry Tommy.” They both breathed heavily, attempting to calm. Thomas mumbled an answer, words cracking. “It’s ok. It’s ok.” His words sounded comforting, even though Newt had him squashed to the ground. Nobody should sound loving after wrestling for their life.

Still, Newt rested his hand on Thomas’ neck, and he felt the rapid pulse beating beneath it, seeping with life. No. This is not ok. This is not ok.

Newt remained with Thomas the few seconds he could afford. He felt the pulse, he felt the warmth of his skin. Felt how alive he was. Assured himself that he truly was alive, that it was not yet too late.

Before Thomas had the possibility to react, Newt wrestled his hand away. Thomas had to live on, for Minho, for Brenda, for the world. For Newt.

With his free hand he reached for the gun at Thomas’ waist. Thomas had to live on.

Newt was going to ensure it.


	13. Didn't even notice

“That’s where I can’t recall more, the Flare… I guess it erased the rest.”

Newt was leaning against the railing of the ship, Thomas’ jacket around his shoulders. Thomas was sitting on a bench, leaning his head backwards resting it on the railing right by Newt’s hip.

They had walked onto deck as Newt was talking, agreeing that maybe some fresh air could ease them a little. They found that outside the sun had gone down, but in the light of the brightest moon Thomas had ever encountered, they’d decided to stay anyway.

The story Newt’d told was a pure agony to hear, but still Thomas hadn’t told him to stop.

Having told it in such detail, Thomas knew Newt had to tell it, had to get it out. Still, it had been hard to understand, and Newt had told it like he didn’t properly remember what had happened. It was kind of true, Thomas thought. Hoped, after the glimpse Newt had shared with him.

But Newt had remembered enough to tell him, enough to bring back emotion. Thomas had recognised the look on his face when he’d talked as the expression he got when he was down, when he didn’t want to talk.

Now Thomas suspected that the expression was more of the sort Newt wore when overcome with emotion. When close to tears. It worried Thomas how much he’d seen that grimache out in the scorch or during their time with the Right Arm, and how many times he’d let Newt be alone thinking it was what he’d wanted.

After having finished the story, Newt hadn’t looked at him at all, and though his voice had held firm during the explaining, it now sounded very far away.

“I remember being afraid… afraid that I would hurt somebody.” Thomas had full understanding of feeling that way, but knew Newt's experience had been taxing in a different manner.

Newt’s last few words were weaker than the rest, and even though he had no way of seeing from where he sat, Thomas was pretty sure why. Newt coughed a little, bringing his hand up to his face. To cover. Thomas rose from his seat and walked up behind him, eventually leaning on the railing too, elbow to elbow with him. Newt still wouldn’t look at him.

After clearing his throat, Newt continued. “And…” He said, steadier this time. “I remember you.” Thomas glanced at Newt, who was still gazing off into the night, and was surprised to see Newts lip quirk up, just for a second.

“After the events where we… fought… ” Clearly, Newt wanted to ignore it as much as Thomas, so he continued. “Did we get lost? Minho only told me that he found us stuck in the rubble.” Thomas cringed a little bit, thinking of Minho. After what Newt’d told him, he was reminded of how little credit his friend had gotten.

Newt looked like he was thinking of Minho too, of what he’d done for them. His eyes had suddenly stuck in the air, so Thomas blurted out.

“A van.” Newt glanced at him questionly. “We had to seperate from Minho and after… we sort of got stuck in a van.” Newt nodded absently.

“A van then…” Newt looked a bit uncomfortable. “I screamed at you.” He mumbled. Thomas nodded, and tried not to recall it. To be completely honest with himself Thomas couldn't blame Newt for screaming at him, at least what Newt had said when they were trapped. Anything else, Thomas blindly tried to force out of his mind.

Newt looked guiltily at Thomas, turning his head at last. “I also have pictures of…” he made a hand gesture at Thomas’ chest, his neck. “Doing that.” he sighed, and stroked a hand over his face, shaking it lightly.

Newt wasn’t someone to have trouble getting words out if he set his mind on it, the night must really be coming in bits and pieces. When Newt lowered his hand, face slightly flushed, he finished. “But I don't know why or of what we spoke… or what happened with context.”

You don't want to. Thomas thought, but he knew that it wasn't true. There was a question behind Newt's words. Maybe it'd feel a little better to know the whole truth.

“I… we did have words and… well, in the struggle, we managed to get a signal out to Minho and Teresa.” Being vague was a nicer option then blurting the whole story, Thomas decided. “We got them to notice us beneath the rubble.” Newt looked sceptical of Thomas’ usage of the word “we”, but only nodded.

“No, yeah, Minho filled me in a little about the compound collapsing.” Thomas was glad to have a topic change, so inclined for Newt to continue. “Yeah?” Newt smiled a little to himself, a beautiful smile, Thomas thought, and spoke about what had happened when he was out.

Newt had regained consciousness two days after arriving, still under observation at the ship. The Flare had gone down with Thomas blood as the cure, more effectively than ever before. They all had been amazed.

Teresa especially.

For almost a whole day she'd been running drills and collecting samples, never leaving Newt to be. It hadn’t mattered much anyway, explained Newt, because at that point he was still not quite himself. He'd come to appreciate Teresa denying Minho a visit (however she managed it) until he’d gotten better.

Minho and Newt both had had a lot to say when Minho barged in on the second day. Thomas was delighted to hear Newt speaking of that reunion, a proper reunion for the pair.

“Anyway.” Newt said, a faint amused look on his face. “I’m gonna be stuck here on the ship until I’m ‘reversed’”. Thomas raised his eyebrows in surprise. “It can do that, the cure?” 

Newt shrugged. “So Teresa claims… but I doubt it will ever completely go away.” Thomas stared at him sternly. Thomas wanted to explain that there would be a way. They could tap Thomas for the rest of his life if need be, but Newt silenced him by pushing away from the edge of the ship.

He moved away from the railing, and sat at the bench Thomas had occupied earlier. Newt spread out his leg as he did, and Thomas realised how the limp seemed to have worsened on the walk here. Thomas doubted Newt wanted him to mention, or even to notice it, but still Thomas felt like he could’ve at least asked him to sit.

Even his gods-damned leg… Thomas forced the thought away.

Not seeming to mind his leg, Newt was instead shrugging off the jacket he’d borrowed. Bit by bit, he yanked it off and laid it on the seat beside him, only for Thomas to move it again so he could sit beside him.

Finally, Newt tugged on his sleeve, revealing his forearm. “This is where I got infected.” Newt pointed out a spot on his arm, but he didn’t need to for Thomas to see. Where once the horrible purple veins had pulsated, white, spider-web markings were left. They all seemed the whitest where Newt pointed, but once he saw them, Thomas realised they covered more of his body, snaking up the length of Newts arm, up under his shirt.

Newt didn’t seem bothered when Thomas traced his finger along one of the marks, feeling the warmth in his skin that hadn’t been there the last time. “I'm surprised you didn't see them.” Newt contemplated, and moved his arm to grant Thomas access. “But I guess it's pretty dark out at...” He glanced at Thomas’ old running clock. It was cracked and broken, having stopped at 02:50. “Well that isn’t right.” he sighed.

Thomas’ hand still rested upon the mark, but he stopped when he looked up at the taller boy. Newt gestured to above his eyebrow, where a thin white line was formed and branched off into smaller ones. There were indeed marks working their way up Newt's neck, emerging from the shadows of his shirt.

Seeming not bothered, but slightly surprised at Thomas' interest, Newt continued. “The only proper scarring I’ve got is the one in my chest… apparently took Teresa a while to patch up.” Thomas’ face was quite close to Newts, having involuntarily traced the lines with his eyes. They ended somewhere upp tangled in Newts hair.

“That scar… they didn’t tell me how I got it, I suppose they didn’t know, but, but I didn’t try to… again?” Newt had a worrisome sheen to his eyes. “... Right?” Thomas shook his head wildly when he understood what Newt was implying, restraining his mind from painting such a picture. “Good.” Newt relaxed a little. Then I don’t need to know more. Not right now.

Thomas moved back a little, giving Newt some space to breathe, and his eyes fell on his hand, holding Newt’s in his. He hadn’t even noticed. “Tommy.” Thomas almost jerked his hand away at the mention of his name, but Newt lightly squeezed Thomas fingers reassuringly.

“Mmm?”

Newt seemed to stiffen slightly, also gazing at their entwined fingers, but Thomas started stroking Newts knuckles calmingly. “Did you… do you have the necklace that I gave you?” It was Thomas’ turn to stiffen. He’d completely forgotten about it until Newt’d mentioned it in his retelling of the story. He instinctively reached for his pocket, knowing well that he wouldn’t find it there. Maybe Minho had saved it for him? Thomas blinked nervously up at Newt.

“No. Shit, I don’t know where it is. I lost the clothes I wore… I can probably find it-” Newt put a thumb over Thomas’ lips before he could either start a bad apology or rush away to find the necklace. ”Don’t worry about it.” Newt smiled, and removed his thumb, but kept his hand by Thomas’ chin. “You don't have to read it.”

Newt's words were already out of his mouth before he realised what he’d said. Thomas frowned. “Read what?”

Newt leaned out, his hand leaving Thomas’ chin, but keeping their fingers intertwined. While disappointed in the lack of touch, Thomas heard a faint “shit” disguised within a sigh, and looked quizzingly at the boy.

Newt looked annoyed with himself, but relaxed his face before he explained. “It was a terrible idea, but I wrote you a letter…” Thomas didn’t like what he heard. “...so maybe you could get some closure.” Thomas heard only the part of the scentace that Newt had left out.

So maybe you could get some closure when I died.

Thomas stood up, leaving Newt sitting on the bench. His hand suddenly felt cold.

Newt pulled on his jacket again as Thomas stomped away a few meters. Newt had given that necklace to him before they got trapped, before the situation became impossible. “I didn’t mean any harm… I thought it'd make it easier for you.” Thomas didn’t answer, having turned to the sea. He looked down. It was a far drop to the water he could just barely see.

“Tommy.” Newt put a hand on his shoulder and turned him around. Thomas hadn’t heard Newt plead since… He didn't want to think about the occurrence. When he was finally facing Newt, tears were welling in his eyes.

“You thought you were dead.” Of course Thomas understood why he’d gotten it, but still… It’d been so early in the night Newt had thought, had counted on, being dead. Pain flashed in Newts eyes and he pulled Thomas into an embrace. His back pushed against the railing when Newt brought his body to Thomas’. Newt’s arms were secure behind his back and he nestled his face into the crook of his neck.

Leaning in ever closer, Newt whispered into Thomas’ ear. “I’m sorry.” A hand pressed into the back of Thomas’ head, as if making sure he wouldn't disappear. “It’s better this way, it's better that you didn’t read it.” He sounded truly regretful.

For all the thoughts that were tumbling across Thomas’ mind he couldn't help but wonder why even write it if it should not be read? Even though wanting closure for Thomas was a noble reason, it was also an impossible one.

“There are things in that note that I shouldn’t have written... I, I convinced myself that it'd be better if you read them. It was selfish, and cowardly of me and I’m sorry.” Thomas didn’t want Newt to apologize. Especially not for something that never happened. But he couldn’t find a voice to urge Newt to stop, instead he took a chance to tell the truth.

“You know… there was something that happened in that van that you must’ve forgotten.” It would explain why it hadn’t come up yet in this conversation. “And that thing is what makes it impossible for me to move on if you had died, I...” A whimper escaped his mouth that prevented him from carrying on.

But Newt had still heard what he’d said. Looking at the change in his demeanor, Thomas wondered if it was possible Newt even understood what he hadn’t mentioned. The blonde continued what he was saying without addressing Thomas’ imput, but his words were more confident.

“I shouldn’t have written those things.” Newt repeated. ”I should’ve said them instead.”

With that, Newt let go of Thomas’ head, and leaned out to look at his face. Newt's cheeks were wet with shed tears, and Thomas wanted nothing more but dry them. He raised his hand to do so, and stroked one cheek with his thumb.

Vaguely, Thomas worried that he was crossing a line. Newt had bared himself to Thomas, told him personal things that he for some reason doubted had been shared with anyone else. Not in this manner. Yet despite opening himself so completely, Thomas failed to tell Newt that one single truth.

It ate at him, feeling like he’d lied when he remained silent. He almost wanted to let go, because how could it be ok, how was it not crossing a line when he behaved like that? He’d promised to tell Newt everything yet it was only Newt who had spoken. Thomas closed his eyes and mentally screamed at himself for his injustice, his thumb stopping too as he did so.

Newts last words hung in the air, and despite knowing he should be moving away, he stayed in Newts hug wondering what they meant. So he asked. “What?” Thomas whispered, his words turning into a puff of white in the cold air. “What should you have said?”

Newt didn’t answer, didn’t say anything. But there was a certain sheen to his eyes that Thomas recognised, that he’d seen before, but he couldn’t tell from where. Before Thomas got a chance to guess, Newt answered for him.

Inclining his head, Newt warily pressed his lips to Thomas’, and as he did, any other thought was erased from Thomas’ mind.

Any other than Newt.

Newt had kissed him.

Warmth filled him, spreading from where their lips met to the fingertips that Thomas brought up to Newts neck, purely on instinct. His body acted on its own, as if it knew where to go, what to do. Thomas certainly didn’t, too stunned to do anything short of opening his eyes again, meeting Newt's brown ones, turned black in the darkness.

Even though Newt's soft lips had just barely grazed Thomas’, gone far too quickly, he knew it wasn’t accidental. Knew that faint touch was on purpose.

Newt had kissed him.

A smile crept onto Thomas' face, and he breathed to steady himself, heavily relying on the railing behind him. Their mouths and faces still impossibly close, they shared a moment in a loaded silence. As neither pushed for another kiss, Newt whispered into Thomas’ mouth, voice breathy and low.

“Is this ok?”

Thomas’ heart softened at the completely genuine question, and as he felt Newts breath against his skin again, he nodded. Slowly. He was careful not to jerk his face too far away from the blond’s.

“Yes.” he answered, a little out of breath. “This is ok.”


	14. Toothbrushes

Newt closed the door behind them with little more than the kick of his foot. The door to Newt’s room locked itself, and yet Newt had barely taken his mouth from Thomas’.

He was crashing into him, keeping Thomas glued to himself and Thomas didn’t mind the lack of oxygen it created. Hands snaking up into the tangles of Newts hair, Thomas was not prepared to let go yet either.

It seemed after being reassured of Thomas consent, Newt finally let himself surrender to his feelings. Thomas could only beg him to do that more often, and wanted to show him that too. Wanted to prove how ok he was with it.

But despite their attempts to delay it, soon they both needed to breathe. Thomas couldn't help keeping his hands on Newt, to make sure he would not leave. Newt seemed to have no indication to do so, as he too kept his arms around Thomas’ neck, lingering from where they’d started as a comforting hug.

It had grown darker in the night, and they had not stopped to turn on the light, but still Thomas could see enough to tell a smile was playing on Newt’s lips. They were a tad glossier than they had been before. Finally one of them caught their breath enough to talk. 

“Is this, is this what I forgot?” Newt exhaled, and Thomas felt the ease and relaxation behind the words. “Because I think it’s pretty memorable.”

Thomas couldn’t help his chuckle at the boy’s words, and for once he let a proper smile bloom on his lips. “This is a fist, don’t worry. You haven’t forgotten.” Thomas couldn’t help but notice a new, unused tone into Newts voice as he answered.

“You won’t be forgetting this either, will you Tommy?” Thomas felt his toes curly in his shoes, and tried to ignore just how badly he wanted Newt closer.

“No. I won’t forget this.” 

“Good.” Newt’s words we’re a whisper against his skin, and they were still so very close to his own, That Thomas couldn’t resist swooping them together. Though he could practically taste Newt’s smile, the boy did not lean in to kiss again, but he took Thomas’ hand leading him further in the room.

He saw the silhouette of the bed forming in the darkness and an anxious feeling started to creep in Thomas’ gut. Did he really want this to go that far? He stumbled over his feet as he contemplated the question. No. He didn’t. Not so quick.

Newt seemed to notice his resistance, and turned back to where Thomas had ended up stopping, turned away from the bed. He looked at Thomas in a way no one had ever done before, not in a way that matched the new tone of his voice, but his eyes simply seeped of warmth. Of acceptance.

Some part of him eased then, and Newt continued to lead them, until the boys were seated on the bed, side by side. Thomas looked at his hands. He didn’t know what to do, he’d never been in a situation like this before. Never really thought about the possibilities. Thomas didn’t know what to do.

A calloused finger ran over the back of his hand, and he gave in, glancing up at Newt again, almost sheepishly, at his lack of experience. With only the faint light from the window, Newt’s face was barely possible to see, yet there he was, knowing exactly what it looked like anyway.

“Tommy.” Newt whispered, as if speaking aloud would be in-considerate to the setting. “What's wrong?” Thomas didn’t bother to ponder on how he knew, but felt awkward as he tried to answer.

“I don’t. Really know how to, uh. I don’t- I haven’t” Thomas ended his stuttering, knowing well he would not have the ability to clarify.

Still a faint smile crept to Newt’s face. It wasn’t a mocking smile, nor one of humor. It just seemed to mean “It’s ok.” Newt let his hand stroke past Thomas’ again before he stood, walking through a door that Thomas had failed to notice before. Dumbfounded, he remained seated.

Within a minute, Newt emerged, clutching something in his hand. He seated himself again, this time angeling his head so the moonlight alighted it. Again a fraction of doubt raised in Thomas’ chest at Newt’s silence. But when Newt revealed his hand, Thomas was struck by the ordinariness of the two objects. Toothbrushes, one blue the other yellow.

Thomas strengthened subconsciously, and the lump in his throat was gone when he questioned his friend.

“We’d better sleep, Tommy.” Newt answered. He seemed on the verge of giving Thomas the yellow brush, the unused one, before he spoke again. “You don’t have to stay here if you want, it’s fine. There’s another room down the hall that they made clear for you.”

Newt hadn’t finished speaking before Thomas put his hand to his, hooking a finger over the yellow brush. “I want to stay here.” It was true. “Of course I do.” A grin had already settled in Newt’s face when he whispered. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

As he reassured, Thomas’ body unlocked itself, and he felt, finally, the last bit of dread seep away. He didn’t need to worry. It was Newt.

Suddenly, they both were on their feet, making their way to what Thomas presumed was the bathroom. I turned out he was right, Newt had gotten the luxury of having an, albeit small, bathroom joined to his chambers. The sink was not yet cluttered after only a couple of days of use, and there was simply a cup for two brushes, a jar of pills and a questionable piece of soap.

Newt fished for an almost-expired tube of toothpaste in a cabinet rusting on the wall, and they started to freshen up. Newt and Thomas fought over the too-little water spout and Thomas ended up drenching the floor in the action, getting an amused frown from Newt.

With toothpaste-foamed mouths, they brushed their teeth. Thomas could barely remember the last time he’d done so, and felt the paste sting extra in places he didn’t know needed brushing.

The tiny bathroom had a shower in its far end, but Newt shot down Thomas question whether he wanted to use it with a quick shake of his head. “Two cwammed.” He mumbled, toothbrush in. “Dwon’t like wit.”

Containing his laugh at Newts mispronounced words, Thomas couldn’t blame him. Neither he felt very comfortable being crammed in anymore, so they promptly left their brushes in their cup, and left the bathroom. As they did, Thomas noticed Newt’s shoulders ease slightly, and made a note of keeping the window open during the night.

Thomas paused when it came to the matter of where to sleep. There was only one bed. It was big enough to hold two, if they lay close. Newt went on to rip the neatly made sheets to a mess of blankets and pillows.

He glanced at Newt, the ease of his movements, as if he was completely sure what they were to do. Newt had invited him knowing there would be only one place to sleep, right?

Despite the dread being gone from him, Thomas paused as Newt finished, turning to him. Newt glanced him up and down, then walked up to him, so close he felt the minty smell of his breath.

Placing a faint kiss on Thomas either cheek, the taller boy mumbled. “No need to be nervous Tommy.” Another kiss was placed quickly on his lips preventing Thomas from arguing that he wasn’t. He wasn’t nervous. But Thomas’ appearance must have betrayed him.

“Trust me.”

Newt softly guided Thomas to the sheets, keeping a faint hand hovering on his arm, steadying him, until he was perched under the blanket. Newt smiled fondly and backed away slightly.

For a second, Thomas wondered why, but his thoughts were cut off as Newt spoke. “Is it ok if I..?” He was gesturing at his clothes. Is it ok if I undress? Thomas nodded. 

He gave Newt his privacy and averted his gaze, instead focusing on kicking off the pants he wore beneath the blanket. He kicked them to the floor, but kept the tee, hoping the blond would not mind it.

Soon he felt a weight at his side, and the warmth of another body under the same blanket. Upon turning his head, he found that Newt, too, had opted for ditching his pants, leaving on a shirt.

The brown eyes were so close to his own, he realised, as he settled on his side.

“You’re looking at me.” Thomas said, stating the obvious. Newt chuckled. “Quite the detective, Tommy. I’m proud.” Thomas felt a warm bubbling in his gut, where the dread had drained, far off.

Newt’s words swam in his head. I’m proud. Something about it made him ease, made him search for Newt’s hand in the dark, even if the statement was just for a little bit of fun.

I'm proud of you too, he didn't say, but gently squeezed the hand in his as if to signal it. He got two squeezes back. I know. Thomas was about to give an answer, aloud, when Newt cut him off. 

“We had a long day, better sleep it off.” Thomas nodded in agreement. They had. 

Thomas shuffled a little closer as he shut his eyes. “Sleep, Tommy.” He heard a voice. Newt still had not let go of his hand.

“Good Night.”

\---

Thomas was still gazing at the ceiling when the shadows grew longer in the room. When he glanced at them, he calculated that the sun must be a couple of hours away from ascending, and it made him more and more unable to sleep.

He knew he should have fallen asleep hours ago, so he could be rested for the next day. For today, Thomas corrected himself.

He didn't know what types of chores would be waiting for him in the morning, but he doubted he could snooze the day away, spending time with Newt. Vince had certainly gotten word that he was awake. How much time until he realized where he was? It couldn’t take long, Thomas assumed. He hadn’t been too secretive.

At the thought, Thomas moved his head to glance at the unmade ball of blond curls beside him. Newt had nuzzled his face into his pillow, and had hogged most of the blankets in the bed, leaving Thomas with the additional pillow he’d gotten and a sleeping beauty to behold.

The boy had fallen asleep quicker than Thomas had anticipated. Just a couple of minutes after they wished each other a good night of sleep, the boy’s hand had slacked in his, relaxing, and Thomas had turned to find him breathing evenly, peacefully.

You should be sleeping, too.

Newt was right, they had had a long day, if not physically, mentally. Thomas couldn’t count the shifts of emotion he’d gone through in mere hours. So by all logic, he knew he should be fast asleep. But Thomas was still awake.

You should be sleeping.

Something was nagging in the back of his head, itching to get out. He tried to ignore it, tried to relax, tired to even his wreaths, syncing them with Newt*s. But still there was that nagging feeling.

Why are you not sleeping?

He’d tried all day to keep his thoughts out, he’d succeed for the most part. But when Thomas found himself nearing the third hour of demanding quiet, those thoughts came barrelling in.

You were happy going to sleep, why are you not happy now?

What he’d pondered at the most was firstly the matters of how his plan had gone wrong. The rescue. Gone wrong, due to him. A city flickered in the darkness, and the flames that erupted from the explosion at it’s middle almost felt real, as if it was not just a product of his imagination.

The screams lasted, however. Because the screams he’d heard for real.

For the time he’d been forcing away the thoughts, Thomas had convinced himself that he didn’t care. It would be within his right to savor WCKD’s screams.

That’s what he told himself.

Yet they kept returning, kept telling him it was his fault. And he listened, because they were right. He’d gone in to save one man and ended up killing a city's-worth of people.

What was worse: He’d do it again. For Minho, Thomas would do it again. What kind of person did that make him?

A small grunt erupted from the mountain of blankets at Thomas’ side, and Newt rolled in his sleep. Due to the lack of space, his head bumped into Thomas’ shoulder and he scrunched up his nose before settling in, keeping his cheek to Thomas' skin. He was warm, and, though Thomas could barely see, he seemed content in his new arrangement.

Why are you not sleeping?

A wave of nausea hit Thomas. Not because of the boy at his side, but because of what he reminded him of. Another one of Thomas’ big mistakes. His fault.

Newt’s face distorted in anger and disgust appeared on the ceiling, as if his thoughts were being projected before his vision. The Flare.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think it would make any difference.”

His fault. Newt didn’t think his own death would matter. That, if anything, was Thomas’ fault.

He had gotten his chances. Many times, to tell Newt what he felt. Tell him, at least, that he was scared of. But Thomas hadn’t said anything. Not in the scorch, not with the Right Arm. And not in Safe Haven. Not even after being kissed, he’d said anything!

Thomas had only mustered his courage when he thought they would die together. And as luck would have it, Newt could not remember. Then Thomas had wished he hadn’t remembered, because of his reaction. And it made him a rutting coward.

He brought his hand to Newt’s face, carefully, to sweep away a strand of his hair that had fallen to his eyes. The boy barely moved.

I do care, Thomas thought. I’m sorry I didn't tell you. His fingertips still rested at the edge of Newt’s chin. The coward that he was, Thomas reassured himself that he was deep in sleep, letting his eyes and ears confirm the calm, steady breaths. 

He whispered the words, confessing to the shadows collecting in the corners. 

He felt his breaths fasten, just admitting the truth, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare stir Newt where he was, perched on his shoulder.

Still his heart rate doubled when the boy moved. Newt’s cheek left his shoulder, and Thomas held his breath waiting to see if the boy would settle back to sleep. For a few seconds, he only heard his blood in his ears, and his ever-speeding heart rate. 

Newt opened his eyes.

They were dark and big, not the least drowsy with sleep. The eyes were awake. Awake enough for Thomas to understand that the boy had heard. And he didn’t dare utter a word.

But Newt didn’t ask any questions. Only slipped his hand to Thomas’, and repeated his words from before, a knowing smile grazing his lips.

“Sleep, Tommy.”

So Thomas did. And he slept through the night.


	15. Epilogue

Today, the last fires of a dying city burned out. It was left in darkness and in ash.

Among the bodies- of the many- you would find a man who struck a bargain to end WCKD, even at the cost of his life. He died, still clutching a burned-out flare in his destroyed hands.

You would also find the body of a woman who died thinking she failed human kind. She gave up. And when she died, she wasn’t afraid, because she knew she would be dead within a month, whatever choices she made. She wasn’t afraid, but she was sad.

Close to her, the horrid corpse of a man will be rotting away. He wanted to outlive the rest. Those who remember his name are glad that he perished.

There are thousands of dead scattered in the streets of The Last City. Too many to count. Most of them were innocent. Some were not. Some were children, who never grew up to know why their parents died. Some were parents who died happily, thinking their deaths could save their kids.

But in the end, no one was left alive for long. The Last City is dead.

But it is not truly the last.

A sea away, a new colony is forming. It’s small and pitiful, and frankly, it is broken. It’s inhabitants. Broken. But they will heal. With time.

Or they won’t.

However, the Safe Haven will exist. And it will live up to its name. Eventually, it will grow into The First City, and it will be open. It will be free of war, and it will be a new beginning.

In this city, there will be many to rejoice over- many that are happy to be alive. And probably some who aren't. But whatever take they have on life, the people will live. They will try their best to do so happily.

But tonight, they will not rejoice.

Tonight they will, in the words of their leader, make their own peace. They will remember those who could not follow. They will ensure they are remembered for eternity. Names will be etched in stone.

And with every name comes a story.

The boy who died to let his friends go on, knowing he would hurt and maim them if he didn’t. 

The boy who died saving his friends, his family, will rest in peace knowing they made it out of the Maze.

The boy who died too young, remembered always as a younger brother, one they should not have underestimated, who never made it out.

These are a few of the many stories that will be passed on tonight. And the storytellers will be able to rest knowing that they won’t be forgotten.

But there will be other stories to tell.

The one about a man resurrected, helping his friends after months apart.

The one about a woman who did what she thought was right, and had to pay for it.

The one about a woman who saved a busload of kids from WCKD.

The one about the man who helped her lifted them to safety.

The one about a man, who after months of torture still ran to save his friends, and was the only one to believe them not dead, the one who ended up saving them.

The story about a man who looked his worst nightmare in the face, and told him that he loves him.

The story of a man that wanted to die but didn't. Wanted to live, but died. Then lived again, to see happier days.

Then there is the story of two friends that went to hell and back with their family. And when they emerged, they were not friends anymore. They were more, and they have yet more to go through together.

All these stories are a part of one, and it has yet to finish. And tonight, it continues to a happier future. The first sentence?

“Welcome to the Safe Haven!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a really good time writing and rereading and rereading and rereading this story.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, too!


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